


Just To Hold You Close

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ASD Sherlock, AU, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, And She Plays a Very Minor Role Here, Bisexual John Watson, Blow Jobs, Bottoming from the Top, Briefly Referenced Self Harm, Building trust, Cuddle Negotiation, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Going Slow, Guaranteed happy ending, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Irena Adler is more ACD Canon that BBC Canon, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Angst, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Platonic Cuddling, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Spooning, There Isn't Even the Slightest Whiff of Adlock, alternate first meeting, back tickling, fear of intimacy, hair petting, sexual anxiety, sexual negotiation, unexpected erections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 70,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined.  John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid.  Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/gifts).



> This is my Fandom Trumps Hate 2019 Charity Auction offering for [@khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir).
> 
> Betaed by the incredibly generous and patient [@Irrevocably_Sherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked).

“So…You’re an escort?”

The man before him balls a fist at his side and sniffs angrily.“Nope.”

“Rent boy?”

“No!”

He’s small, compact, and, Sherlock suspects, deceptively strong and resilient despite the bland, safe impression he clearly works so hard to maintain.Dressed in loose grey joggers and a white t-shirt, dirty blonde hair clipped conservatively, military-short around his ears and nape, and his bare toes curled against the wood floor of his modest and minimally furnished flat, he looks completely innocuous.He could be a school teacher, a father from the suburbs, a bored and disillusioned GP.But his body and eyes are silently telegraphing so much collective trauma that Sherlock’s brain has trouble keeping up. 

_Interesting._

He shakes his head to clear it.

“We done here?”The man asks, clearly quite done himself.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Watson.I’m here about Donna Murray.”

“It’s _Doctor_ , actually.And just who the hell are you?”

“I did say.”

“Sorry, must have missed that between you turning up unannounced, telling me my bum leg is all in my head, and labelling me a whore.”

“It wasn’t meant as an insult.I’ve known many fine whores.The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”He extends his hand, but the man ignores it.He snorts and shakes his head, but Sherlock thinks he sees the corner of his mouth twitch upward for a moment, before he represses it again. 

“Listen.I’m a—therapist—of sorts.Professional cuddling.It helps people, it seems.So who am I to judge.It’s totally platonic.And as for Donna, there _is_ such a thing as client confidentiality, so unless you’re a cop, and she’s in danger…”

“She’s dead.”

He watches the news sink in.John Watson is clearly a man accustomed to death.He’s shocked, but seems to absorb the news with little to no outward signs of distress.“What happened?”

“The suspicion is murder.”

This revelation on the other hand…He drops head, and lifts a hand to rub at his eyebrows.“Jesus.”

“You were, I believe, the last person to see her alive.”

His head snaps up at that.“Am I a suspect, then?”

“No.”

“You sure.”

“Not unless you give me reason to make you one.”

The good doctor’s brows furrow.“That’s an awfully blunt admission for a cop.”

“I’m not.”

And for the first time, Sherlock sees something shift behind the man’s eyes.He stands a little straighter, coils tight, instantly hyper-alert. 

“Just what the hell are you, then?”

“I’m a Consulting Detective.”

“A P.I.?”

“No.A Consulting Detective.”

“Which means…?”

“Which means, that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” 

The man laughs.“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock sighs. “You said you’re a doctor, but what you didn’t tell me is that you are a recently invalided army doctor.It was the wound to your shoulder that sent you home.The circumstances surrounding it were traumatic.You favour your one leg, as well.Not a war injury, though, not that.But there’s trauma there too. 

“When you got back to London you had trouble fitting back into civilian life.You have a therapist.Maybe she was the one who suggested you try this cuddling lark.Was it the nightmares?And then, since you were in desperate need of money, you thought—why not do it too.”

“You done?”The man turns and disappears into the flat.

“No.”

“Then stop hovering in the doorway like some sort of vampire, and come in.”

This was not the response Sherlock was expecting, not the response he usually gets to his unsolicited excavation of people’s deepest secrets and rawest of wounds.John Watson continues to prove the exception to every rule, and despite all his better instincts, Sherlock is completely fascinated.

The flat _is_ modest and just as neat and tidy as one would expect from a military man.The scant furniture is arranged in such a way as to create a calm and relaxing environment for his work.There’s a pine futon with a white mattress against one wall, an unframed poster of what looks like the Sussex coast pinned to the wall above, a couple of house plants, bravely clinging to life on the window sill, and a simple desk that looks like it came from Ikea along the opposite wall, a closed laptop the only object on its surface.There’s a small kitchenette, too, and the doctor is there now, preparing tea, it seems.

“Listen, Donna was a regular.She came once a week.She was always on time.We would complete our session, say our good-byes, and that was it.I didn’t know a lot about her.She wasn’t a talker.Some people are.Some people want to tell you everything, you know.I think they are hungry for a sympathetic ear as much as the touch.Bit like being a bartender, which I did in uni.You let people talk.You listen.Most of the time they figure shit out on their own.It’s easy money, to be frank.”

“Is that why you do this?The money?”

“I wanted to stay in London.You need money to stay in London.And I…Well, I was trained as an orthopaedic surgeon.After I got shot, couldn’t do that anymore, and the thought of being a GP, treating strep, and piles, and head lice all day, wasn’t all that appealing after three years as a trauma surgeon in the desert.

“You were right about the therapist.They assign you one when you get back.She recommended this ' _cuddling lark’_ when I kept waking up at night.After a few overnight sessions, I figured that holding someone while they slept was something I could do just as well as anyone else.Besides, it’s £80 per one hour session, so…”

Sherlock sits down on the edge of the futon.“And how’s business?”

John appears in the doorway to the kitchenette with two cups of tea in hand.“Yeah, not good.Not good at all.”

Sherlock chuckles, and the man smiles.“I’m not the soft and fuzzy type, you know.”

“Yes, I imagine not.”

“Some people want that.”

“Some people are idiots.”

The man’s mouth quirks even as his brows furrow quizzically.He hands Sherlock a cup of tea.It’s not exactly as Sherlock takes it, but it’s warm, and strong, and bracing, and Sherlock is glad for it all the same.

“Who knew a person could be bad at cuddling?”Watson shrugs as he pulls the chair away from the desk and turns it to sit across from Sherlock.

“But Donna came regularly?”

He shrugs again.“Guess I was her cup of tea.She was a widow.Her husband was a military man.Never got his head on right after he shipped home.Killed himself a few months ago.I guess there was familiarity there, for her.I think—I think I reminded her of him, a bit.

“But she seemed like a sweet person.Never seemed to be in any kind of trouble.Wasn’t in a relationship that I could tell.I can’t imagine anyone murdering her.”

Sherlock takes another careful sip of tea.It’s surprisingly sweet.He relishes in the warmth as it passes through his body.“Do you have any other clients who regularly come before or after her?”

“Don’t have a lot that come as regular as her.There’s a woman that sometimes comes right afterwards.Newer client.Just the last few months.Irina Adler.American, I think, but there’s a hint of some kind of accent, too.Russian, maybe?She mostly wants to talk.I get the impression she’s more about learning the craft than actually participating, you know.Bit posh.Bit aloof.Don’t know much about her either.That was one of her stipulations, actually.She didn’t want to tell me much about herself.So, I can’t be of much help when it comes to her, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have an address?”

“No.Just an email and mobile number.”

“May I have those?”

The man sits a little straighter in his chair.“Listen, she’s a good paying client, and I can’t really afford to lose her.”

“I can have the police get a warrant.”

“Then, I guess you should do that.”

Sherlock blinks, frowns.

“And male clients?”

The man shifts in his seat.“What?”

“Do you only take female clients, or are there male clients as well?”

“It’s never come up.But, for the record, I’m open to taking anyone as a client—male, female, or whatever.Doesn’t matter.”He sounds defensive.

“There was no judgement intended.”

The man’s hand fists around the handle of the mug in his hand.“Oh yeah?Then why ask?You interested?”

Sherlock’s instinct is to scoff, but he seems paralysed by the possibility, that for some reason has not occurred to him until now.He is staring, just staring, and he’s quite certain he looks an idiot.

Some of the tension drains from the man’s shoulders.“Shit.Listen, I’m just—I guess this is affecting me more than I realised.You see why I don’t have many clients, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, still dumb, feeling more and more helpless every moment.He gets to his feet.“Yes, well.I’ll go.”

“Oh?Yeah?Fine.Okay.”

“Yes, I’ll go.”

“Right.”

“Yes.Good-bye.”

Sherlock is out on the street hailing a cab before his brain catches up, and he’s assailed with images of Dr. Watson standing at the door to his flat, mug of tea in hand, blinking and confused as Sherlock all but fled from his flat.

_Stupid._

_Stupid.Stupid.Stupid!_

He takes a deep breath as he settles into the back seat of the cab, tries to clear his head of all the images swirling about in it—tanned skin, compact body, furrowed brow, clenched fists, thin, expressive mouth, eyes the colour of the sea at dusk…

He shakes his head and growls in frustration, sees the cabbie glance back at him in the rearview mirror, and instantly pretends to be frustrated with something on his phone.

This is ludicrous.He’s not been working enough.That must be it.It will pass if he can just focus…

By the time he gets back to his flat he’s in a bad way.This is going to be one of those things.John Watson is going to be one of those people.Every so once in a wild while there will be a person who gets under his skin, a person he can’t seem to exorcise or shake, and they torment him, silently, from a distance, for days, weeks, months.He’ll just have to let it run its course.

Right now there is a case to be solved.A woman has died.This _thing_ , whatever it is, will have to take a back seat.

* * *

 

What would he be called?Cuddler?Cuddlist?Cuddle worker?

Hmm…

Sherlock types ‘Professional Cuddler and John Watson’ into the search bar, and hits Enter. 

_Oh._

_He has a website._

_Well then.Just a peek._

The website is a simple affair.Clearly one John’s pieced together using some pre-set template.But it’s adequate.There is his photo.Sherlock stares.He looks different in the photo.It’s a bit of a deception, really.There is a softness to him, that wasn’t there in real life.A mask to gain clients, then—something Sherlock can appreciate.

A short bio.Sherlock had been correct about everything that mattered. 

A Code of Conduct.Necessary, no doubt.

He takes a look.

  * You must verify that you are at least the legal age of consent in your location.I can provide proof of age upon request.
  * We both agree to be free from any mind-altering substances during the sessions.This is a consent issue.It is important that you are able to give clear consent at all times.
  * You agree to fully disclose any diagnoses or conditions that may affect your cuddling session.This is for your comfort and safety.
  * We both agree to practice consent and attention to personal boundaries at all times.
  * We will communicate to find what is mutually comfortable throughout each session. This applies to all communication prior to and after sessions as well.
  * This is a strictly platonic service. We both agree to not pursue or encourage sexual arousal. Also:
    * Minimum clothing of tank top and shorts to mid-thigh for both of us at all times.
    * No hand to genital or breast contact. 
    * No intentional genital stimulation of any kind.
    * No exchanging of saliva, or any other bodily fluid, in any way.
  * We both agree to respectful personal hygiene. You agree to let me know if I do not have acceptable personal hygiene.I will do the same for you.
  * Client confidentiality will be respected at all times.
  * Either of us may end the session at any time.



Mmm.It seems fair.He tries to imagine the man he had met earlier in the day sitting down and writing such a list.It seems unlikely.Perhaps there is an industry-wide, accepted code of conduct?If one can refer to Cuddling as anything of the kind.

Sherlock chews on his bottom lip and goes back to the home page.The hair is longer.That’s what’s contributing to the softness.And it’s an old photo, taken before he’d been injured, perhaps even before he’d been overseas.His eyes are slightly less haunted, and there’s something more easy about the smile.

He doesn’t like the photo, he decides.

He shuts the lid to his laptop and sits back.This is ludicrous.He’s being completely ridiculous.He could be doing other things, useful things.True, he is waiting on D.I. Lestrade and his silly warrant, but he could be—thinking.Yes.He should be thinking.A woman has died.

He eyes the sofa across the room.He should lie down, relax, sort through all the details he’s stored away in his mind palace thus far.Yes.That is what he’ll do.

He takes his laptop with him, and sets it on the coffee table before settling in.It’s quiet.His landlady is over playing bridge with her neighbour.It’s raining outside.Unlikely he will get any late night clients.He is alone.He has time to think.He takes a deep breath and lets himself sink.

John Watson is waiting for him in the very first corridor.He rolls his eyes.“What are you doing here?”

John shrugs, all nonchalance.“You tell me.”

“I’m trying to think.”

“So think.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“But I am, so obviously you want me here.”

“I don’t.”

The John in his head shrugs again.“Then ask me to leave.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, and then closes it again.He opens his eyes, and glances over at his laptop lying on the coffee table.

He picks it up, sets it in his lap and opens the lid. 

John Watson’s face is staring back at him.

**Click Here to Schedule a Cuddle Session**

He does.

It’s a simple enough form.He pauses for a moment and then begins to type.

  * **Name:** Sherlock Holmes
  * **Age:** 33
  * **Email Address:** sholmes@gmail.com
  * **Mobile #:** 07556 154236
  * **When and where would you like to meet for our initial screening?** Tomorrow (30/01/10).Noon. The Criterion.224 Piccadilly, Piccadilly Circus.
  * **Where would you like to conduct your first cuddle session?** Your flat, if that is acceptable.
  * **How long of a cuddle session are you interested in?** One hour.
  * Method of payment?
    * ******Online (in advance):** X
    * In person (at the beginning of the session).



He enters his credit card number.His finger hovers over the submit button.This is the maddest, most dangerous thing he has ever done.He is a finely tuned machine.He is a brain existing in a body.Said body does not have _needs_.He is above it.It’s low, and common, and nauseatingly human. 

Sherlock Holmes does not cuddle!

He clicks submit, and instantly feels a wave of terror wash over him.He stares at the confirmation screen in mute horror. 

** Your Cuddle Session Request has been received. **

** If you have submitted this request during regular business hours,  **

** you can expect to hear back within 4 - 8 hours. **

Sherlock blanches.He can cancel.There must be a cancellation button somewhere?!He frantically hops about the website, and then finally, in the FAQs:

** If you need to cancel a session,  **

** please call the mobile number listed in your confirmation email. **

He goes to his email. 

 

> _ Mr. Holmes, _
> 
> _ Thank you for scheduling a cuddle session.I will contact you within 4-8 business hours to confirm.If you need to cancel, please do so at least 12 hours before your session, or you will be charged a cancellation fee of £40.To cancel, please ring me at 07412 839675. _

Call.It says call.Sherlock doesn’t call, never calls.

It’s a mobile number.He’ll text.

The phone vibrates in his hand with an incoming call, and he almost drops it in shock.It’s ten o’clock at night.No one should be calling him now.He stares down at the caller ID: **07412 839675.** Oh.

He considers not answering it for a moment, and then decides he’s been unacceptably infantile, and picks up, doing his best impression of superior and aloof.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh.It _is_ you.Figured there was no way there could be two blokes named Sherlock Holmes in the world.”

Sherlock feels some of the tension drain from his body at the sound of the doctor’s voice.“Of course it’s me.”

“You scheduled a session.”

“Yes…”He drawls.

“I’m calling to confirm.Have all your info here.Meet at the Criterion tomorrow at noon.That right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.Okay.Right.Well, we’ll discuss the logistics of our first session there.I’ll go over some of the basics, the ground rules, give you a chance to back out if you’d like.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Some people need time to let the idea settle.Sometimes they decide it’s not for them.That’s why I like to meet first time clients face-to-face before we ever engage in our first session.”

“We’ve already met face-to-face.”

“True.But not in this context.It’s for your comfort as well as mine.”

Sherlock sighs ( _why isn’t he backing out?!!Now is the time!_ ).“If you must.”

“Alright then.I’ll see you then.”

“Yes.Fine.”

The line goes dead, and Sherlock lowers his phone from his ear and stares down at the screen.

He’s going to regret this.He knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Professional Cuddlers Code of Conduct was borrowed and adapted from [cuddlist.com](https://cuddlist.com/code-of-conduct/). 
> 
> **Author's Note:** Though it probably goes without saying, professional cuddlers are just that--professionals. They do not regularly go around falling in love with their clients or eventually having sex with them, but this is fan fiction after all, and so you can guess where this is headed. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

“If you could hurry, that would be—good.”

“Why the rush?Sit.Take a load off.Stay awhile.”D.I. Lestrade mumbles around a mouthful of doughnut, as he leans back in his desk chair, doughnut in one hand and paper coffee cup in the other.

Sherlock sits, but he doesn’t want to.There are a million reasons why staying is the very last thing he wants to do.Two of them, Detectives Donovan and Anderson, are leaning against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed over their chests. 

“I have a lunch meeting I can’t miss.”

Lestrade’s brows lift as he takes a sip from his coffee cup.He swallows and grins.“A lunch _meeting_?”

“Yes…”He dons his most condescending of tones.Why is it that Greg Lestrade ALWAYS insists on wasting his time over inane pleasantries.

The grin on his face has only widened.It doesn’t bode well.

“A lunch _date_?”He winks, and Sherlock rolls his eyes as Sally Donovan barks out a laugh behind him.

“No.”

“It is.Oh my god.”Lestrade seems disproportionately gleeful.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oi!Holmes has got a date!”Anderson announces to the floor of diligently working detectives just outside Lestrade’s office door.A collective exclamation rises, half whoop of victory, half groan of disappointment.

“They’ve placed bets,” Lestrade explains.

“It’s _not_ a date.”Sherlock grinds out, though it’s all for naught by now.Damage done.the collective lunacy of New Scotland Yard reaching a fevered pitch.

“Most likely the truth, Boss.”Sally grumbles.“Who’d want to date The Freak?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, leans back in his chair and glances over his shoulder.“Bit judgemental, for someone willing to settle for even slimmer pickings, isn’t it, Sally?”And when she frowns in confusion and just the slightest hint of apprehension, he goes in for the kill.“Pickings so slim you’re apparently willing to spend weekends helping Anderson with the housework while his wife is away.Scrubbing floors, I’d say, given the state of your knees.”He lets his eyes drift down to her bruised knees, clucks in disapproval, and feels a small twinge of satisfaction when she scowls, pushes away from the door frame, and disappears into the throngs of officers making good on their bets.

“You’re just making that worse you know,”Lestrade chuckles.

“I wasn’t the one who started it.”He sounds petulant, even to his own ears, and it irritates him.He’s let her get to him.It’s thrown him off his game.He needs to get back on track.

“I need the warrant.I’m meeting with the cuddlist this afternoon.”

Lestrade snorts into his coffee cup.“That a euphemism?”

“No.He’s not a prostitute.He was rather insistent upon that.He performs a therapeutic service, and Donna Murray was a regular client.Unfortunately, he’s principled, strong moral compass, won’t give me contact information on any of his clients without a warrant.Sooo…”

“I got you.No need for the big defence.I was on it the minute you called me last night.Got it righthere.”He taps the top of his desk.

“Then, for God’s sake give it to me, so I can leave.Every minute you waste subjecting me to this pointless banter, your killer gets a moment closer to their next hit.”

Lestrade sobers.“You think they’re going to strike again?”

“Most certainly.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ve had a series of these ‘suicides’ around the city the last few months.You missed the first one.A teenage boy in Peckham.Then there was that reporter, and the broker just last month.”

“They’re connected?”

“Of course they are.Now, if you don’t mind…”Sherlock arches a brow and nods toward Lestrade’s desk.

Lestrade’s mouth twitches into an indulgent smile.“Yeah.Fine.Alright.But you’re going to sit down and give me a proper explanation no later than tomorrow afternoon, you understand.”He slides open the drawer to his desk and pulls out the warrant, handing it across to Sherlock.“Now go enjoy your date.”

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes again, making absolutely sure that Lestrade knows just how incredibly boring he’s being.

He ignores the whoops and snickers from the rest of the detectives as he heads for the elevators.

* * *

 

The restaurant is overwhelmingly crowded.He had been stupid to say noon, but he’d hardly been thinking straight the night before. 

He still isn’t entirely sure why he’s here.Oh, there is the obvious—the warrant, the opportunity to glean more information for the case.But he can’t lie to himself that much.This is something much more than professional interest or the hopes of emotionally manipulating a witness into telling more than they’d intended.He knows it, and he doesn’t particularly want to think about it.

He’s late.

John Watson isn’t.He’s sitting at a small table beside a giant marble pillar, sipping water from the glass in front of him, and looking vastly uncomfortable.He’s dressed up a little: plaid button-down shirt, done all the way up to the collar, navy v-neck jumper pulled on over top, a pair of neatly pressed chinos with brown leather brogues to finish it off.He looks a little like a well-dressed librarian.Something in Sherlock’s centre constricts and warms.Best not to leave him waiting any longer.

“Doctor Watson.”Sherlock extends a hand as he approaches, and John gets to his feet.

“John, please.”

“Sorry I’m late.There is a certain Detective Inspector at the Met who likes to make small talk.”

“Not keeping you from work, I hope.”

“Not at all.”

It’s all weirdly formal, given the fact that they had just met the day before, and it was nothing like this.Sherlock feels he’s doing well, making a good impression, but it’s hard to tell.It’s always hard to tell, even though he’s gotten remarkably good at pretending over the years.

John rubs at the back of his neck.A nervous gesture that Sherlock is surprised to discover he finds endearing.“Was a bit worried I’d got the time wrong, or thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

“Not at all.”

_Stupid.You just said that!_

John just smiles.“Was a nice surprise hearing back from you.”

_Oh._

“Was it?”

“Yeah, it was, umm…”And now it seems it’s John’s turn to feel uncomfortable.It levels the playing field a little, and Sherlock feels like he can breathe again.“Just had a feeling.Dunno.Sometimes it’s like that.”

“A feeling?”

“That you might become a client.You get a bit of an instinct for it after awhile.”

“Do you?”

“Mmm.”John stares down at the menu in his hand, and then up at the ornate ceilings and crystal chandeliers handing above them.“Bit posh, this.”

“Eat.Please.It’s on me.”

“I don’t usually expect clients to…”

“And then we can get down to business.”

“Oh, right.Yeah.Sure.Okay.”

A waitress chooses that moment to appear.John orders a salad and a cup of tea.Sherlock orders a risotto that he intends to barely touch.He’ll beg John to finish the rest.The clothes he is wearing are new in the last six months, but visibly loose.It’s clear he’s lost weight just since he purchased them.A salad is not enough.

When the woman leaves again, John takes a sip of water from his glass, and then leans back in his chair, licks his lips and clears his throat.“So, ground rules.I take it you read the Code of Conduct.”

“Yes.”

“And you agree to abide by it.”

“Of course.It seemed fairly straight forward.”

“Fair enough.But some people have trouble with the consent.”

“Yes, well.I am not ‘some people’.”

John smiles, but there is a tightness to it.“A lot of people say that too.”

“Why would I do something I didn’t want to do?”

“Because sometimes you don’t realise you don’t want to do it until you are in the middle of it, and then you don’t know how to say stop.So, I have some questions I’m going to be asking, and I need you to answer them as honestly as you can.Honesty is the thing, okay.If we can’t be honest with each other, then this won’t work, and I’ll cancel the session.”

Sherlock bristles at that.“If I’ve done something to make you think that…”

John shakes his head.“No, no, no.Nothing like that.This is common practice.I ask everyone the same questions.It’s a way to get to know one another, to practice being honest and open, before you get in the middle of a session and might feel—out of your depth.”

Sherlock already feels out of his depth.He’s regretting all of his life choices, and wishing that he was anywhere other than where he is currently sitting (John’s prim dress, thin, wet lips, and distractingly expressive eyebrows notwithstanding).

“So, you okay with that?”

“I suppose I will have to be.”

“You don’t sound particularly enthusiastic.”

“I’m not feeling particularly enthusiastic.”

John frowns.“Listen, I can get up and walk out of here right now.If you’ve changed your mind, it’s perfectly okay to…”

“No!”Sherlock surprises himself with the strength of his response.He takes a deep breath to calm his overactive nerves.“No.It’s fine.Proceed with your questions.”

“Okay.Yeah, okay.”John takes another sip of water.He’s going to have to excuse himself for the loo in a few minutes.Best to get this over with.“So, first question.Have you ever participated in a professional cuddling session before?”

“No.”

“Okay.Do you have any issues with touch that you would like me to know up front?For example: chronic pain conditions, an injury, neurological disorders?”

“No.”It’s a lie, but best not get into all that.He does just fine.He handles things.He’s gotten very good at handling things over the years.He may still earn the occasional ‘freak’ at the Met, but all-in-all, he passes.This whole cuddle lark is simply an experiment.Pure curiosity on his part.One or two sessions, and it will be out of his system.John Watson doesn’t need to know anything beyond the mask he has so carefully crafted for himself.

“Are you willing to be an active participant in the cuddle session?”

_Unanticipated._

“What do you mean?” To his mortification he feels his cheeks warm.

John must notice, because he smiles reassuringly.It’s horrible. 

“I just mean, do you foresee yourself wanting to cuddle as well as be cuddled?”

“Is that a requirement?”

The waitress reappears with John’s salad and tea.It was from the antipasti menu, and is ludicrously small.Sherlock is glad he thought to order the risotto. 

John blinks down at his plate, no doubt shocked at the size of the meal, given its price, and then spears a cherry tomato with his fork, and pops it in his mouth.“It’s not a requirement, no.I just like to get a feel for the lay of the land before our first session.”

“I see.”

“So…?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Okay.That’s fine.It’s fine not to know right away.So, at our first session would you like me to initiate?”

“That will be acceptable.”

“That works.So, tell me, what do you like?”

And this is when Sherlock’s brain decides to abandon him altogether.Dreadfully inconvenient.Infuriating really.He’s meant to be saying things, and he’s not.He’s not.He’s just staring. 

John cocks a brow in anticipation, and then furrows it when he gets no response.“Hold that thought, okay.Need the loo.”

The space is a relief, but the restaurant is still abuzz with lunchtime bustle, and no matter how hard he tries to refocus, it doesn’t seem to matter.He considers leaving while John is in the loo, but it would be inconsiderate to leave him with the cheque, and he is the one who requested a session in the first place.He needs to pull himself together!

He lets his eyes slide shut.Breathes.

“You okay?”

His eyes snap open.John is sitting across from him.There is a bowl of steaming risotto on the table in front of him.How long had he…?

“Yes.Just a little tired.Apologies.”

“No problem.”John nods toward the risotto.“Your lunch came.”

“Yes, I rather overestimated my appetite.Will you help me finish?”

“Oh.Yeah.Sure if you’d like.”

John pushes his now empty salad plate toward Sherlock, and Sherlock adds three quarters of the risotto to it.He watches with satisfaction as John tucks in.He is clearly starving.It makes something ache deep in Sherlock’s centre, and he has to turn a deaf ear to the voice of his older brother, Mycroft, niggling at the back of his mind.

_‘That’s your problem Sherlock, you have a weakness for broken things.’_

“Good this.You sure you don’t want some of it back?”John licks some of the cream from his lips, and Sherlock is momentarily mesmerised.

“No.I—I ate earlier.Not hungry.”

John shrugs.“Suit yourself.So—do you have any questions for me?”

 _It’s a thin mouth, so how is it that the lips can be so…_  

Sherlock tears his eyes away from John’s mouth.“Questions?”

“Yeah.Anything you’d like me to answer, to set your mind at ease.”

“When will we conduct the first session?”

“What would work for you?I’m free the rest of today.I also have a block tomorrow afternoon after 2:00.”

“We could meet today?”

“Sure, if you’d like.We can go straight from here to mine, or if you would like to go home and change into something more comfortable first, that’s fine too.”

“So, I’m acceptable.”

John’s brows knit and his mouth quirks.“What?”

“I assumed this was a screening procedure of some kind.”

John huffs softly.“Not sure I’d characterise it like that.Like I said, it’s more to give us a chance to get to know one another, and give you a chance to change your mind if you want.”

“And what about you?Do you ever change your mind?”

John sets his fork down and sits back.“It’s not happened yet.That’s not to say it won’t some day, but you’re fine.”

“What would make me not fine?”

John huffs again, grins, shakes his head.“I don’t know.If you were a psychopath or something.If I thought the session was going to end with me in pieces and stuffed into a duffle.”

Sherlock sits a little straighter.Something dark and sour twisting in the pit of his stomach.“Perhaps you’re right.Perhaps this won’t work.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…What?”

“I said, perhaps this won’t work, after all.”

John lifts a hand like he’s trying to calm a skittish horse.It’s unbearable.Sherlock shoots to his feet.“Good day.”

He’s all the way out to the kerb when he realises that he’s not paid the cheque.His face is flaming.He’s bungled the whole thing. _Stupid.Infantile.Unacceptable!_ He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a deep breath through his nose, before turning on his heel and marching back into the restaurant.John is still sitting at the table.He’s thumbing through his wallet. 

Sherlock strides up to the maître’d.“Don’t let that man pay for his meal.I have it.”He hands him his card, and the man nods and hands it to the nearest server to handle.Sherlock retreats behind a potted palm to wait for the transaction to complete.He’s being an idiot.He’s better than this. He’s—tripped up somewhere.He should just—handle it.

This is precisely why he doesn’t do _people_.

The waitress approaches John’s table.He tries to give her his card, and she shakes her head.That’s when John looks up, looks around, and sees him before he can duck back behind the palm.He says something and gets to his feet just as the maître’d calls Sherlock over to sign for the transaction and return his card.

John has reached his side by the time he’s done.“I’ve misstepped somewhere,” he says in a low voice, just as Sherlock pockets his card and turns to walk out.John follows in his wake.“I’m sorry.Don’t walk out on this because I’m an idiot.Can we talk about this?”

“You’ve nothing to apologise for.This isn’t you.”

John reaches out and lightly touches his elbow, just as he lifts a hand to hail a cab.“Listen.I apologise about the psychopath thing.It was that, wasn’t it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters if you actually want this and you’re just backing out because I’ve been an insensitive sod.”

Sherlock glances over at that. 

John looks sincere and slightly troubled.He forces a slight smile.“Told you I’m bad at keeping clients.Honestly—I’m pants at the talking bit.Now…”He glances around them.“Piccadilly is mad this time of day.What if we go some place quieter?Give it a chance?”

Sherlock drops his arm.“St. James Park is just down the street.”

“Okay.Then let’s go there.”

* * *

 

It’s remarkably warm for January.They sit on a park bench in silence, and watch a flock of ducks paddle across its glassy surface.Sherlock relishes in the silence, the whisper of the wind through the bare branches above them, the quiet lapping of the water against the shore of the pond, and the even breathing of the man sitting beside him.

It’s John who begins.“When I asked you about diagnosis before, you said there were none.Were you honest about that?”

“Does it matter?”

He hears John suck in a breath, let it out slowly.“In a way.There are things that can make you touch averse.There are things that can make anxiety quick to rise, and communication difficult when it does.I need to know about those things to keep my clients safe and comfortable.That’s why I asked.”

When Sherlock says nothing, he continues.“Take me for instance.PTSD my therapist says.Not sure how accurate that is, but there’s anxiety, occasional rage.There are nightmares sometimes.I can wake up and not know where I am.I can get—violent.I’ve not taken overnight clients because of that, not up to this point, anyway. 

“I told my first cuddle practitioner that when I was in treatment, too.They decided it was a risk they were willing to take, but…It’s important you tell me things.”

A small child hurries toward the pond’s edge, hand-in-hand with her nanny, and starts to toss frozen vegetables onto the surface of the water.The flock of ducks turn in tandem, and start to swim back in their direction with a chorus of eager quacks. 

Sherlock worries the cuffs of his coat with this fingers.“I don’t talk about it.It’s never been necessary.I was diagnosed as a child, possibly inaccurately.I was given a different diagnosis in my twenties when I was—in rehab.I manage.I have it handled.It’s useless to me.”

“Okay.But I need to know—in case things come up.You can tell me now, and I’ll never bring it up again.But I do have to insist.”

Sherlock wonders why he feels like he’s going to cry.All this trouble just because of his damned, insatiable curiosity.It was all just meant to be an experiment.It was never meant to get this serious.

“They didn’t have my previous mental health records when I was in rehab.My brother took care of that.He agrees that diagnoses can be restrictive, the product of small minds and limited ways of thinking.As a result, they were working blind. 

“I was difficult.I was purposefully difficult.I didn’t want to be there.So I picked something that everyone would find particularly off-putting, and I became that.”

John chuckles, and Sherlock looks over in surprise.“Imagine you did a good job.”

Sherlock smiles back.“Of course.I don’t do anything by halves.”

John grins, and then sobers.“So—rehab…You clean now?”

Sherlock nods.

“That the truth?”

“Yes.”

John nods in acknowledgement.“Okay.And what did they say when you were in rehab then?”

“Sociopath.”Sherlock smiles, and John smiles back, huffs and stares down at his lap with a shake of his head.

“But you’re not.”It’s not a question.

“Of course not, but I do like to trot it out on occasion.Can be useful in cowing people who insist on being boring.”

John shakes his head again, but he still looks amused rather than shocked or appalled.“And the real diagnosis?When you were a kid, I mean?”

And Sherlock wonders why it’s so hard.Perhaps it’s the memories attached, the summer spent in the hospital after his dog died, the school insisting on special classes when he got out, Mummy pulling him out to have him tutored instead, her disappointment in him when he turned out to be merely clever, to have no exceptional talents at all, and yet still had all the _ridiculous little_ _nuisances_ , as she liked to call them. _All the fuss and none of the reward._

“Is it enough to say I was gifted child?”

“It’s pretty clear you’re bloody brilliant, but this is to do with cuddling, yeah.I need to know if you are going to have difficulty with that.Listen…”John’s voice drops.“I’ve had clients on the Autism Spectrum before.It’s okay.”

Sherlock’s head snaps around, and John must see the look of shock in his eyes.“I am a doctor.”

“I don’t talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”Just stares back out at the water, and Sherlock is grateful.“Can I ask some questions?Just in regards to you and the cuddling.That’s all.”

Sherlock nods.He feels overwhelmed by the whole thing.John is so—so unexpected.Cleverer than he appears, a bit bristly, rather poor communication skills at times, but clearly makes an effort at being kind.And it is something he has to work at.It doesn’t seem to come naturally.Sherlock appreciates that even more.

“Are you touch averse?”

“I don’t think so.Sometimes, perhaps.”

“When?”

“If I’m—keyed up.”

“Okay.Are there kinds of touch you prefer.Some people like super light touch.Other people that just drives them nuts.So, do you prefer one over the other?”

“I don’t know.”

“Right.Okay.And if you get—keyed up, during a session, will you be able to communicate that to me, tell me to stop?”

“I imagine so.”

“So, you always find it easy to verbally express your wants and needs?”

“I don’t know!”Sherlock snaps.He’s watching the ducks.The child has fallen into the pond, and there is a great deal of screaming.

John doesn’t say anything.After a moment he taps his fingers on the seat of the bench, and gets to his feet.“Let’s walk and talk.”

Sherlock joins him.They walk away from the screaming child and her flustered nanny, until they reach a bubble of quiet once again.Just stops at the water's edge, picks up a few stones, and skips them over the surface.

“I think this can work.I’m going to check in a lot.That’s probably going to seem slightly clinical and weird at first, but over time it becomes habit, and you won’t notice it so much.If I ask you if something is okay and you don’t respond, I’m going to stop.I’d rather not take risks.My intuition isn’t always that great.Does all of that sound okay to you?”

Sherlock stares at the back of John’s head, at the way his hair curls in the curve of his nape, the way his muscles rise and fall beneath the fabric of his jumper as he tosses the stones into the water.

“Yes.”

John turns around, and squints into the sun shining over Sherlock’s shoulder.He smiles.“Good.Then what you say we go back to mine for a little cuddle?”He winks and Sherlock feels his cheeks heat, but it’s alright.

John Watson is exceptional, that is clear.And Sherlock wants this, he realises.He does.He trusts this man, beyond all reason, and an opportunity like this won’t come again soon.He wants it, so why say ‘no’?

“Yes.Let’s.”

He winks back.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m going to change.You want to pull that futon out for me.”

John is in the kitchenette making tea Sherlock is certain he won’t be able to drink.His stomach is twisting in knots, and he’s more glad than ever that he didn’t eat at lunch.It would be just his luck to vomit all over them both on this, their first outing.Like the time he’d nicked a vein in uni, and bled all over Victor the first time they’d shared a bed.Well, that had been more of a futon, too.Or rather a dirty mattress on the floor of an abandoned boat house on the banks of the Cam, where they’d both snuck off to shoot up.Sherlock shakes his head to exorcise old ghosts.

This is different. 

This is a modest, neat, sparkling-clean flat.This is a man who is a hero.A soldier, and a doctor.A man who heals for a living, and who would be horrified to know the things that Sherlock had done in those early days when he’d felt lost and adrift.

_The way you still feel lost and adrift…_

“Here you go.”John is standing beside him, holding out a steaming mug.There’s cream again, which he doesn’t take, but he accepts the offering anyway.John is smiling that soft, half-smile of his again.One of his fingers brushes against Sherlock’s when he hands him the mug, and leaves a trail of fire, warm, and tingling, in its wake.

“I’m just going to go change into some more comfortable clothes.”

“No.”Sherlock blinks as the word comes out of his mouth.

John does the same.“Oh?You want me to stay in these clothes?”

“I…”

John grins.“Right.Okay.That’s fine.You want to take your coat off, though?”

Oh.

Sherlock spins around, looking for a place to put it, but John has already set his own mug back down on the small table beside the futon, and is returning to his side, hand outstretched.“Here, I’ll take it.”He moves around behind Sherlock, and helps him shrug out of it, before taking it to a small closet Sherlock hadn’t noticed in the short corridor to what he assumes to be the loo.

“You want your suit jacket on or off?”

“On.”

“Okay.You want to pull this futon out?”

“No.” 

John just nods, and then sits down, and pats the space beside him.“Whatever you like.We can even just talk this first session if that is easier.No rush.”

Sherlock walks over and sits down beside him.“I don’t think either of us would be very successful at that.”

John huffs in response.“Can I take your hand?”He asks—blunt, straightforward, just like that.

Sherlock’s stomach flips.He’s not going to beat around the bush then.Well…In for a penny, in for a pound!

“Yes.”

John’s hand is small, dry and warm as it wraps around Sherlock’s, fingers curling around the side to press against his palm.John’s thumb glides over the top of Sherlock’s knuckles in a soothing gesture.“This okay?”

Sherlock’s heart is racing, and he can’t seem to look at him, but he nods.

“You sure?”

He nods again.

“Okay.”

And so they sit like that, John’s thumb sweeping in slow crescents over Sherlock’s skin, occasionally punctuating the touch with a slight squeeze. 

Sherlock is slightly embarrassed by how much it is affecting him, how soothing and yet paralysing it is.Other than the occasional fond pat to his cheek by his landlady, he can’t remember the last time anyone has touched him.At least tenderly, and with intent and purpose. 

He’s not sure anyone has ever held his hand so long.He wouldn’t tolerate touch as a child, unless it was his brother Mycroft sitting on him ‘to shut him up’ when he was ‘being a terror’, or his father pulling him into his lap to read to him before bed.And then he had been separated from other children for the majority of his education, not being thrown into the social lion’s den, again, until he’d gone to uni.

That had been overwhelming, and strange, and more challenge than he’d been up for at the time.There had been Victor, at least.Victor had been incredibly tactile, but had never pushed things beyond the platonic.Well, not much beyond anyway.But even that had been complicated, and in retrospect more about their shared taste for chasing the next high, than sincere mutual affection.

This thing with John is so different.

Sherlock’s brain is working overtime to file away all the sensations flooding his body at once, and is grateful beyond words that John doesn’t seem insistent on keeping up a conversation, because he’s not sure he could process this and talk at the same time, even if he wanted to.

For the first time in decades he finds himself wondering what sex must be like.He’s not like other people.He doesn’t feel things that way, doesn’t crave it in the same way other men seem to.It’s one of the main things that has made relationships more trouble than they’re worth.Men expect things.Of course they do.And Sherlock just—doesn’t do that.

There’s a comfort in what he’s doing now.It’s professional.He’s paying.John is obligated to make sure things work for him.He isn’t going to have any expectations.In fact, taking things that far is strictly forbidden, so it takes the pressure off, makes Sherlock feel like perhaps he can enjoy this for what it is, without having to navigate the usual minefield of human relationships and expectations.

He lets his eyes slide shut.

“You tired?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“You can lay your head on my shoulder, if you like.”

Sherlock considers it.Does.

John’s shoulder shifts a little beneath his ear.He hisses, and Sherlock backs off immediately.

“Sorry.Forgot this is my bad shoulder.”John apologises with a crooked smile.“Switch sides, maybe?”

Sherlock’s fingers flutter to the spot on instinct, and then drop just as quickly, when he realises that the gesture is mostly likely inconsiderate, drawing attention to something John would rather not think about.

“It’s okay.Doesn’t hurt all the time.Here…”John gets to his feet, and they switch spots, but some of the atmosphere of ease and comfort has shifted.

“Sorry about that.”John apologises again, and Sherlock doesn’t want that, doesn’t want him to think…

“No apologies necessary.I believe you mentioned that we both could put a stop to things whenever needed.”

John is staring down at his hands, picking at a hangnail in the corner of this thumb.“Yeah.Yeah, it’s just—still hard sometimes, realising that I’m not what I was befo…”He jerks his head toward his shoulder, and his voice catches, even as his brows knit into a knot of pain at the memory of something Sherlock knows he may never be privy to.“Sorry.”He covers his eyes and rubs at his brows.“Sorry.”

It’s unexpected, this vulnerability.Sherlock aches.He aches to…

“Am I allowed to…?”His fingers inch outward again, but he stops just shy of the hand John has resting on his own thigh.

John sniffs, and takes a deep breath.“You want to hold my hand?”

“I would like to hold you.If—if I may.”

“Oh.Yeah?Okay.You want to lie down?”

“Yes.”

John reaches under the futon and pulls out a pillow, gets to his feet and pulls the futon out into a bed, and then motions for Sherlock to make himself comfortable.And so he does.He lies down, a makes sure to leave a little room for John on the pillow, and John crawls onto the mattress, and then lies down beside him. 

Their faces are close.Sherlock can taste John’s breath, taste the mild cheese, and mushroom, and starch of the risotto he’d had for lunch.He breathes in the scent of his skin, his clean hair, so many things mingling.It’s unscented laundry soap, and Pears glycerin body bar, and Tesco brand shampoo.There’s nothing posh or pretentious about it, nothing overwhelming.It’s warm, and clean and comforting.He smells like home, Sherlock realises.Or at least he smells how Sherlock imagines a real home would smell.Some place you can settle, and calm, and just be.

Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s.They’re red-rimmed, and they flicker away from Sherlock’s in discomfort when Sherlock stares too long, and too intensely. 

Of course. 

For all his feigned confidence when it comes to his ‘profession’, John is clearly someone unaccustomed to real intimacy.Sherlock recognises the internal panic behind his eyes when he feels too much.It’s familiar because it is something Sherlock feels, himself—often.

Sherlock reaches down and lays a hand lightly on John’s waist, waits until John nods, and then wraps his arm around and pulls him closer.He feels more than hears John soft inhalation, and then the quiet huff as he releases the breath again.

“Alright?”

“Yeah,”John whispers, forehead tilted down.His breath wafts over Sherlock’s chin and neck.

It’s wonderful, the weight and warmth of John’s body pressed against his, the way John is moving in small, subtle ways, easing his body into a perfect fit against Sherlock’s, sliding down to adjust for their mismatched heights, until his head is tucked under Sherlock’s chin, nose and lips nestled against Sherlock’s clavicle, and he settles—fully—every last ounce of tension draining from his body in a deep sigh.

Sherlock has never been permitted this, to comfort another human being.He’s never felt certain he quite knew how, even though the urge has been there, now-and-again, so powerful and overwhelming it almost translated as pain, a pain he was cursed to carry, unabated, because he would never, ever be permitted to express it.He is too odd, too cold to be appealing to people in that way.He knows it, he’s learned to embrace it, and yet here is John Watson, a near stranger, and he seemingly wants this, wants Sherlock’s closeness, the warmth of his body, the strength of his embrace.He would tell him if he didn’t. 

There is a contract. 

That is their agreement.

This alone is worth the cost of the session, he thinks.

After a few minutes John’s breathing starts to even out and his body relaxes even more.He sleeps.They still have a half hour in their session, going by the clock on the wall.Sherlock lets him.It gives him time to look, to file away all the tiny details that make up the man in his arms, to drink his fill in ways he never could if John were awake. 

He is unsure how many sessions he might be able to string out of this arrangement before John grows tired of him.John is clearly hard up for money, so can hardly be turning away clients, but still…He’d like to file away enough data to last him a good, long while, if necessary.

John is small, almost too small at the moment.Sherlock can feel the unyielding fan of his ribs even through the fabric of his jumper, but his back and waist are well muscled, and he has small pockets of fat, still.A small softness around the middle, two pockets either side of the base of his spine, a little in the chest.It’s the juxtaposition of softness set over steel that Sherlock finds so pleasing.John feels good to hold, strong and fit, but not bony in the way Sherlock’s body is.A pleasing weight.Grounding.

Sherlock breathes deep, inhaling the scent of John’s scalp.It’s freshly washed hair, smelling of strawberries.It’s mostly dark blonde, but mixed through with gold, and taupe, and even the barest hint of silver.There is a shaft of late afternoon sunlight shining through the flat’s one, square window, and the edge of it is just catching a little patch at the back of John’s head.It shimmers in the light.Sunlight and moonlight combined.A little miracle of evolution.Perfect.

How is it, Sherlock wonders, that he’s managed, by mere chance, to stumble upon a man so utterly perfect?And how is it that this man has agreed to share himself in this way?It feels too great a thing for chance, and for one brief moment, Sherlock almost thinks he could believe in some divine force in the universe, how else to explain such undeserved and breathtaking extras?

_Idiot._

He lies quiet and still and watches the minute hand move closer to the top of the hour.Several floors below he can hear children playing.School is no doubt out for the day.A door slams out in the hall.A siren races by in the street.

John stirs a little a that, makes a small sound like a whimper at the back of his throat, and Sherlock tightens his hold around his waist on instinct until John settles again.

When the clock finally reaches its destination, Sherlock pulls back a little, and stares down at John.He has his fist tucked under his chin.His mouth is lax.His eyes are rolling about beneath his lids.Best to wake him gently.

Sherlock pushes back a bit more.“John…”

John’s nose wrinkles for a moment, and Sherlock can’t help but smile.

“John, the session is over.It’s time to wake up.”

But he gives no sign of waking.Sherlock carefully extricates himself from the futon, and heads to the loo, and then fetches his coat from the closet on his return.When he takes a final peek, John is sitting up, bleary eyed, and looking thoroughly confused.

“You fell asleep,” Sherlock offers softly, from the front door.

John’s head snaps around.“Oh Christ.Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock smiles.“It’s fine.”

“Listen, I won’t charge you for the full session.”He swings his legs over the side of the mattress.“Let me just…”

“Nonsense.We were touching and in close proximity for a full hour.Nowhere does it say that both parties have to be awake.”

“Yeah, but…”John catches Sherlock’s challenging eye, and grins.“You’re sure?”

“Of course.I do have to dash, though.”

“You want to set up another session?”

“I’ll check my schedule and let you know.”Of course he will, but he doesn’t want to seem too eager.

Sherlock reaches into his pocket for his gloves, and his hand closes around a folded piece of paper. 

The warrant. 

Oh.

He momentarily considers not bringing it up, but people _are_ dying…

“Ah, I almost forgot.”He whips it out, and takes a few steps forward holding it out to John.“I do still need the contact information for your clients.”

John’s brow had been knit, but curious as he passed it off, but now he has an explanation, any hint of warmth has suddenly disappeared.He’s staring down at the piece of paper in his hand, jaw clenched tight.

“So this…”He waves his hand about in an all encompassing gesture.“This was all just, what?You trying to get more information out of me?”

“Of course not.Don’t be stupid.”

John’s brows shoot toward his hairline.“Oh, so now I’m stupid?!”

Sherlock feels a bit thrown off.True, he expected John to not be particularly keen about handing over his client list, but he doesn’t understand the strength of his reaction.

“Yes.You are.This is standard procedure.I told you I was going to get a warrant.And this case is something completely separate from the professional services you provide me.”

“Professional serv…Listen, I need those clients.If I start giving out this information, I’m not going to have…”

“Well, as far as I see it, Dr. Watson, you don’t have a choice.People are dying.I need that contact information.I’m not leaving here without it.”

John’s whole demeanour changes.His back straightens, mouth presses into a straight line.He gets to his feet, left hand balled into a white-knuckled fist, and moves across the room to his computer, where he sits down, and pulls up his contacts.“I’ll just email them to you, then.The address you gave me fine?”

“Yes.”

A few seconds later Sherlock’s phone buzzes in his pocket.He lifts it out, thumbs open his mail.There is a list of 8 clients, including himself.“Thank you.”

“Get out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.You got what you came for, now get out.”

Sherlock feels a burst of adrenaline bloom in his chest.“John, you don’t seriously think…”

“GET OUT!”

Sherlock blinks at the ferocity of his response, and does exactly as bade.

* * *

 

His hands are shaking.

Sherlock tucks them under his thighs in the back seat of the cab, and tries not to think about everything that has just gone wrong, tries not to think about what it had felt like to hold a living, breathing man in his arms for the first time in his life, what it had felt like to watch him sleep, to know that he was being trusted enough for John to let that happen.And he very much tries not to think about how it had felt to see all that trust shatter in an instant, and over something Sherlock still can’t fully understand.

When he gets back to his flat, his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is just heading up the stairs with a tray of tea.“Oh there you are.There’s a woman waiting upstairs.She says you’ll want to talk to her.Smartly dressed.I think it’s about a case.”She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.“She mentioned murder.”

Sherlock sighs.He can feel a headache coming on.“Did she give a name?”

“Yes.It’s a Ms. Adler.”


	4. Chapter 4

The woman in his lounge is, indeed, impeccably dressed.Perched on the edge of one of his desk chairs, she is a mask of calm in a simple white sheath dress, a pair of Louboutin heels, and diamond studs in her ears that must be worth a small fortune.She is clearly a business woman, and there is a surety and confidence to her posture that suggests she is the sort of person accustomed to giving orders and having those orders obeyed.

She does not look in the least bit distressed, and yet—she’s here to discuss murder.

Interesting…

Sherlock is intrigued, despite the unpleasant surprise of finding a strange woman in his lounge on a Sunday afternoon.

“Miss Adler, I presume?”He extends a hand and she takes it.She has a firm shake. 

Her crimson lips press into a wry smile.“Mr. Holmes, I presume.”

“Indeed.Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

She leans back in the chair a little, her bright blue eyes studying him.She’s taking stock, he realises, just as he did with her.She’s deciding if she can trust him.

“You’ve been talking to John Watson.”Her mouth curls.

It’s jarring hearing that name come from those lips.It shouldn’t be.She’s a client of John’s, and she’s clever.There’s a brightness to her eyes, a knowing turn to her mouth that Sherlock recognises, and can only admire.Of course she would have deduced…

One of her perfectly groomed brows arches, and she smiles.“He is rather something, isn’t he.”

Sherlock scowls.“Is there a point to all this— _chit-chat_?”

She grins.“There is, as a matter of fact.You’re investigating the murder of Donna Murray.I know who killed her.”

Sherlock walks over to the hearth and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the toe of a Persian slipper he has nailed to mantle.He holds it up.“Do you mind?”

“Not if you’re sharing.”

He strides over and offers her the box.She withdraws a cigarette, places it between her lips and waits for him to light it for her.After a long drag, which she holds and savours, she exhales and seems to relax.“These are Greek.Wherever did you get them?”

“I was in Athens last month.Now…”He lights one of his own, and then goes and cracks the lounge window to pacify Mrs. Hudson.“A name, if you please.”

She takes another drag from the cigarette, and leans back in her chair with an indulgent smirk.“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes I would.And I’m quite certain you didn’t come all this way just to titillate, so what is it holding you back?”

“I find myself in need your services.”

“I help you.You help me…”

“And everyone is happy,” she finishes.

He sits down in the chair across from her.“Tit for Tat.Fine.Tell me.”

“I’m here because of my wife.Kate.Her life is in danger, and—it’s rather my fault, I’m afraid.”

“Are you willfully wasting my time, or…”

Miss Adler scowls.“The work I do, I meet people—in high places.They tell me things.Things they perhaps shouldn’t.My lips are sealed.Of course.Professional confidentiality.I wouldn’t have any clients left if I wasn’t tight-lipped.”

Sherlock feels a sudden twinge of guilt. _John._

“And just what is it that you do, Miss Adler, mmm?You deal with wealthy and influential clients, that’s clear.You provide a service, then.But what exactly?”

She smiles, takes a long drag from her cigarette, and exhales a slow wreath of smoke above his head.“Recreational scolding.”She winks.

“Sex.”

She shakes her head.“No.Discipline.”

“Erotically charged discipline.”

The corner of her mouth curls upward, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I see.And now one of your clients has blabbed, and your lips are sealed, of course, but…?”

“But I believe he, Donna Murray’s husband, Frank, to be precise, told me something that is quite dangerous, and extremely valuable to a great many people.”

“Dangerous?Do you know why?”

“No.”

“But someone wants that information, and that someone is threatening your wife’s life if you don’t cough it up?”

“Yes.”

“Give it to them.Just give them what they want and this will all be over.”

“I can’t!”She whispers fiercely.

Sherlock frowns.“Why ever not?”

“Because I worked for him.”

“For who?The person threatening you?”

She nods.“It was a single contract.If I’d known how dangerous he was, I never would have…But business was bad for awhile, and I needed…”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively.“I don’t care about any of that.Sentiment.A rather dangerous indulgence for someone in your profession, is it not?Perhaps taking a wife was not in your best interest.”

She arches a brow.“Oh, and you can choose who you fall in love with, I suppose?”

“One must have a heart to fall in love, Miss Adler.I have been reliably informed that I do not.”

She stares at him, incredulous for a moment, and then laughs.“You are exactly as he said you would be.”

“Who?”

“The man I’ve mentioned.”

“So you’re here at his behest?Forgive me, Ms. Adler, but I don’t believe you are being entirely honest with me, and I have no patience for trifles.So please, do get to the point!”

She frowns, and then sighs.“Donna Murray’s killer is a man named John Clay.One of those types who was born into wealth and then ended up hard up on his luck, and was never quite able to accept that.He’s clever, but not clever enough.Now that Donna is dead I imagine you will find him dead as well.”

“Why did he kill her?”

“I imagine she wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.”

“Which is…?” 

“Something her husband had.Something the man who hired Clay wanted.”

Sherlock sighs in impatience.“A name!”

“You must promise to help me.”

“Yes, yes.I promise.You have my word.Now—a name!”

She takes one more drag from her cigarette and then snuffs it out in the ashtray on the desk before getting to her feet, and walking over to stare out the window.She parts the curtains with the back of her hand, and stares down at the early evening bustle.

“I collect information.For my own safety, you understand.If something ever happens, and I’m being threatened, the information I gather could be used to buy my protection.”

“So much for professional confidentiality,” Sherlock observes wryly.

She turns away from the window with a frown.“It is an emergency fail safe.Nothing more.”

“Of course.”

She walks over to the hearth, and runs a finger idly along the dusty mantle, before rubbing her fingers together and letting the small ball of dust she’s gathered drop to the carpet. 

“Last year Frank Murray became a client.He was ex-military, working a government contract of some kind in aeronautics.Civilian life wasn’t suiting.He hid it well in day-to-day life, but deep down… 

“He came to me because he craved discipline, needed the adrenaline rush.I’m not sure his wife knew about our arrangement.It seemed to be helping him. 

“However, in the beginning he was careless.He’d often leave his phone unlocked, and open to the last email he had responded to.I took what I would normally take.Photos.A code.I’ve had it ever since.I didn’t tell anyone.

“Around the same time, I was contacted by a man who said he was in need of information.”

“What information?”

“Any information, I might deem useful or interesting.I never met him face-to-face.There was only a name—Moriarty.”

“Moriarty…”Sherlock files the name away for future reference.

“I gave him a little something.I was paid.I thought that was the end of it.Until he reached out again a couple of months ago, specifically asking for anything I had gleaned from Frank Murray.I wasn’t comfortable with our prior arrangement.I told him so.That is when the threats started coming in.”

“He was threatening your wife?”

“Yes.

“Then Frank ended up dead.They said suicide, but…”

“You think it was murder, too?”

“He was doing well.A week before Donna turned up dead, I had a visit from John Clay.He posed as a client, and then tried to force the information out of me.That didn’t end well for him.”She smiles, and Sherlock smiles back.

“So when he couldn’t get the information from you, you think he decided to see what Donna knew?”

“Exactly.After she turned up dead, I knew that Frank had to have been murdered too.Mr. Holmes, I cannot let the same thing happen to my wife.”

“Then give Moriarty the code.”

“I would, but the thing that Frank was working on was top level.High security.Kate thinks my giving it up might be endangering lives, many lives, and she has— _scruples_.Refuses to let me hand it over.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t know what is in her own best interest.”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

“Is it not?”

“No.”She sounds deadly serious.It’s something Sherlock cannot understand at all.

“And what do I have to do with this?You say this Moriarty person mentioned me?”

“It’s how I knew to come to you.It seems you have a fan, Mr. Holmes.”

“A fan?”

“He’s a great admirer of your work.”

“And this just came up in conversation, did it?”

“As a matter of fact, it did.He seems a tad obsessed, to be honest.Couldn’t get him to shut up about you.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to think about this information.On the one hand it’s bizarrely flattering, on the other hand, there is a sort of unhinged obsessiveness to it that he has a visceral, built-in resistance to.All those rapped knuckles as a boy, every time he became over invested in something deemed trivial or silly.Over time he’s learned to turn a wary eye toward anything or anyone who is overly passionate, but still… 

_A fan.Interesting…_

“Fine.I’ll help you.”

He sees the relief register physically, her shoulders drop, she remembers to breathe.

* * *

 

It’s late, or rather very early.Sherlock wraps his dressing gown more tightly around his shoulders, and stares down at the abandoned street below.It’s raining, and cold, and he knows what Mrs. Hudson would say if she were awake at such an hour to see him.“You’ll catch your death.Put out that cigarette and close that window right now, young man!”

He smiles in spite of himself.It’s novel and new, this.He hasn’t lived at 221b Baker Street for very long.It’s barely been a month, and though Mrs. Hudson had been someone he valued and cared for when he’d helped her out of a little fix in Miami nearly a decade ago, he is still getting used to having her back in his orbit.He’s not used to motherly ways.They always sat oddly with him.His own mother is as cold and cerebral as he is.Icy.More like his brother, really, when he comes to think of it.They are a strange family, the Holmeses, the whole lot of them.

He exhales, and watches the cigarette smoke float off in the cold night air, before staring down at the phone in his hand.He should apologise to John Watson.That much is clear.The problem is, he still isn’t entirely sure what he’s apologising for, and he certainly doesn’t know how to go about doing it. 

Perhaps he should just book another session?

He’s entirely out of his depth, not to mention rather put out.How dare Ms. Adler just show up on his doorstep AFTER he had already gone to all the trouble of getting a warrant, AFTER he had burned bridges with John.If he’d known she was going to be so accommodating, he wouldn’t have bothered at all.

But then, that does seem to be his lot in life…

_Human contact—more trouble than it’s worth._

He stares down at the mediocre photo of John on his website, blots it out with his thumb, sighs, and then clicks the link to schedule a session.He pays in advance.Perhaps that will add a sense of obligation?It’s only after he’s hit submit that he realises that perhaps such an approach might be considered more than a tad ‘not good’.

_Oh._

Should he text an explanation?

He scrolls through his call history until he comes to John’s number.it’s late, or rather early.It’s going on 2:00 in the morning.He shouldn’t bother him.But then, he would hate for him to wake up to the advanced payment and get the wrong idea.

Just a short text.

  

> I’ve scheduled another session and
> 
> paid in advance, but there is no
> 
> obligation.

 

He stares down at his phone, and waits.

Ridiculous. 

John is sleeping.Of course he is.All _sane_ people are sleeping at this hour.

Three pulsing dots appear and Sherlock’s stomach flips. 

Not asleep then.

>  
> 
> **Sod off.**

 

Hmm… 

>  
> 
> I take it that’s a ‘no’.
> 
>  
> 
> **Well spotted.**
> 
>  
> 
> I fail to see why you should be so warm
> 
> over the issue.You knew I was 
> 
> investigating a murder.You knew I had 
> 
> every intention of getting a warrant, 
> 
> and if you think that the only reason I 
> 
> scheduled a session was to try to extract 
> 
> information out of you, then you are 
> 
> a bigger idiot than I realised.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Nice. **
> 
>  
> 
> What?
> 
>  
> 
> **What do you mean, ‘what?’.Christ, you’re**
> 
> ** a right mess, aren’t you. **

 

That stings a little, not that Sherlock has any intention of letting John know it. 

 

> I’m not the one chasing off perfectly
> 
> good clients, simply because I’m in a 
> 
> needless huff about confidentiality.
> 
> Besides, Ms. Adler came to me of her
> 
> own accord this evening, I’ll have you 
> 
> know.We have things well settled.You 
> 
> have no need to worry about losing her as 
> 
> a client.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Sort of not the point.  **
> 
>  
> 
> Well then, do tell, what is the point?!
> 
> I would like another session.I’m 
> 
> willing to pay.I’ve not done anything
> 
> wrong, that I can tell, and you are in 
> 
> no position to be declining clients.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Has it ever occurred to you that  **
> 
> ** continually harping on someone’s  **
> 
> ** financial situation might not be the **
> 
> ** best way of ingratiating yourself to them? **
> 
> ** I KNOW I need the money!Doesn’t mean **
> 
> ** I’m so hard up I need to toss away whatever **
> 
> ** bit of self-respect I have left. **
> 
>  
> 
> I wasn’t aware sharing a bed with me was
> 
> that abhorrent. 

 

There’s a long pause during which Sherlock hates himself for how ridiculously small and petty he feels.

 

> ** That’s not what I meant. **
> 
>  
> 
> **That’s not what I meant, at all.**
> 
>  
> 
> ** Listen, I like to feel like I’m picking my **
> 
> ** clients, like I’m a professional and **
> 
> ** I still have some say, some sense of  **
> 
> ** self-respect left, when the truth is, you’re  **
> 
> ** bloody right.I’m useless.I’m invalided.  **
> 
> ** I’ve lost my career.I’m barely making ends **
> 
> ** meet.And so, yeah, I do need the money.But **
> 
> ** I don’t appreciate being made to feel like  **
> 
> ** I have no choice in things.Can you even begin  **
> 
> ** to try to understand that? **

 

Sherlock hates himself.And he should.He knows better.He’s generally much more socially adept than this.He’s not an idiot.It’s just that when it comes to this particular man, he—he’s just completely…

 

> Yes.Apologies.

 

Several minutes go by, so many that Sherlock is just beginning to wonder if John hasn’t fallen asleep, when:

 

> ** Where and when? **
> 
>  
> 
> What?
> 
>  
> 
> ** You heard me.Where and when do you  **
> 
> ** want the next session? **

 

He assumes he had better be on his best behaviour.

 

> Whatever works for you.
> 
>  
> 
> ** You can’t sleep? **

 

Once again Sherlock is thrown by the hectic, random pace and direction of the conversation, and decides to stop thinking and just let the overwhelming flood that is John Watson, wash him where it will. 

 

> Thinking.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Oh yeah?About what? **

 

Perhaps honesty?

 

> You.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Me? **
> 
>  
> 
> Yes.
> 
>  
> 
> ** What about me? **
> 
>  
> 
> How I might rebuild the bridge I’ve somehow,
> 
> inadvertently burned.You must believe 
> 
> me, no offence was intended. 
> 
>  
> 
> I do tend to blunder when it comes
> 
> to things I deem unimportant.And human 
> 
> interactions are things I deem unimportant— 
> 
> beyond what is necessary to my work, anyway.
> 
>  
> 
> ** And yet here you are apologising. ;) **

 

Sherlock stares down at the ridiculous little excuse for a winking emoji, and wonders what it might possibly mean.Best not to read too much into it.

 

> Yes, well, I felt we had a certain
> 
> rapport.It’s a professional relationship
> 
> I would like to explore further.If you are
> 
> amenable, that is.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Said I was. **
> 
>  
> 
> Alright.Then I repeat my question
> 
> from before.What time works for you?
> 
>  
> 
> ** Could do right now, if you like. **
> 
>  
> 
> Now?
> 
>  
> 
> ** Or not… **

 

Sherlock warms at the thought.

 

> Would I come to you?
> 
>  
> 
> ** Or I could come to you.Whatever you like. **

 

He thinks about Mrs. Hudson and her constant prying and protestations that he is too much alone, that he needs to find himself a _nice young man_.He shudders.She’s probably asleep, and John would be gone before she even knew he had been there, but still…One can’t be too careful.

 

> I’ll come to you.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Yeah?Okay.I’ll be here.  **
> 
> ** See you soon. **

 

Sherlock is once again reminded of how fortunate he is in his current living arrangements, when he is able to catch a cab within minutes, even at such an hour.He feels some of the day’s tension drain from his bones as it races through the night, the sound of the wheels on the pavement, and the soft sweep of orange street lights slowly washing away the anxiety that has been tying his stomach in knots ever since the misunderstanding earlier in the day.

Things will be alright.

He can continue with these experiments and explorations unhindered.He knows now.He knows to be cautious of John’s pride.He knows that John is still struggling to find his feet as a civilian, that he needs to feel valued, needed, even wanted perhaps.It is all useful information.

Sherlock lets his eyes slide shut, and builds a new room in his mind palace, specifically for all things John.He builds it to look like John’s flat, modest and tidy, everything in its place, and anything not fit for human consumption secreted away in hidden drawers and cupboards, just like the desk drawer John’s eyes had constantly drifted to the first day they had met.

“Oi!You getting out, or what?”

Sherlock snaps back to the present, and realises they’ve already arrived.

When he gets up to the flat, John greets him with a somewhat sheepish smile.He’s in shorts and a t-shirt, and his hair is ruffled and soft.He smells fresh, like he’d showered not so many hours prior and has just now fully dried.It’s only then that Sherlock realises he must reek of cigarette smoke.

John motions him inside, and only speaks once the door is closed again.“Hey.”

“Hello.”

They stand just inside the door and stare at one another in awkward silence until John’s cheeks start to pink and he looks away, strides away toward the kitchenette.“You want tea?”

“No.”

“Ah.Right.”John stops in the middle of the room and looks around himself like he’s trying to figure out what to do.It’s different than it was a few hours prior.He seems anxious, unsure.Embarrassed by the strength of his own reactions, earlier, perhaps?

Sherlock wracks his brain for ways he might break the ice, but comes up empty handed.

“Perhaps we should just get down to business?”

John looks relieved at that.“Right.Yeah.‘Course.You want to lie down again, or…?”

“Sitting is fine to start.”

“Okay.”

“I apologise.It has been quite the evening and I’ve been smoking.Does it bother you?”

John shakes his head.“You’re fine.”

But Sherlock suddenly feels a crippling sense of self doubt.He doesn’t understand it all.He needs the space, to…“It—would it be too much to ask if I might…?”

John is just looking at him, brows twisted quizzically at his sudden and seeming inability to string a sentence together.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.“May I shower?”

John’s eyebrows ascend and disappear into his fringe.“You’re fine.It’s not so bad.”

“It’s—distracting.”

John seems to consider this.After a moment he shrugs.“If it would make you more comfortable, go ahead.Won’t start the hour until you get out.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure.Go ahead.There’s everything you need in there, and towels in the cabinet over the toilet.”

Sherlock tries to be quick and efficient.He drapes his clothes neatly over the sink, and hopes that the steam will help to air them out a little.It’s unlikely, and he inwardly berates himself for not thinking to shower and change before he arrived.Here he is working hard to make amends and getting absolutely everything wrong all over again.

He does feel better after the shower, and there is something strangely intimate about having used John’s shampoo and shower gel.He realises too late that he has nothing to put in his hair, and it’s likely to be a riot before their session is through.He sighs and stares at himself in the mirror with an unforgiving eye. 

_Idiot.Stop trying so hard._

He squeezes the last of the water from his curls with a towel, and is just slipping back into his trousers when there is a soft knock at the door.

“Yes.”

“Thought you might like a t-shirt and some shorts.Just going to leave them outside the door.Might be a bit small, but they’re here if you want them.”

He waits until he hears John pad back toward the lounge before cracking the door open and pulling the offerings inside.He lifts them to his nose and breathes deep, memorising the scent of John’s laundry soap.It’s something mild and slightly citrus.Another note to add to the perfume he has brewing in that special room in his mind.

The t-shirt fits well.It is clearly too big for John, so either something he just likes to wear to bed, or something left by a previous client (or lover?).The shorts are certainly John’s but they have an elastic waist, and fit Sherlock just fine, much to his surprise.

He does his best to tame his damp curls with his fingers, gives his mouth a rinse with the mouthwash on the counter by the sink, and then makes his way back out to the lounge, the clothes he came with draped over his arm.

John is sitting on the futon with a book and a cup of tea.He looks up and freezes, stares.Sherlock feels his face heat.He lifts a hand to his hair, and then instantly berates himself, dropping it again just as quickly.“I didn’t have my usual—things.Apologies.”

John seems to recover a bit at that.“Feel better?”

“Much.”

“Here.”John gets to his feet, and reaches for the clothes draped over Sherlock’s arm.“Let me hang those up for you.”

When he returns he stops and stares again.Sherlock doesn’t know what to say.“Problem?”

John shakes his head.“No.You just look—different, that’s all.Not bad.Just different.”He nods toward the futon.“You want to sit down?”

“Yes.”

And so Sherlock does.It’s slightly cold in the flat, but John sits down next to him, slides in close, and his body heat is soon radiating against Sherlock’s side, chasing away the cold.

Sherlock stares down at his hands, which he’s folded primly in his lap.“John, I should tell you again…”

“I was an idiot.” 

Sherlock looks up, and John smiles, small and crooked. 

“I was an idiot,” he repeats.“You’ve met me at a—not so great time.It had been a bad day.Hell, it’s been a bad month.I took that out on you.Not fair.So…”John swallows tightly, his hand balling into a fist against his thigh.“I’m sorry.”He finally manages.

“I made you feel used.”

John’s eyes snap up to his, and to Sherlock surprise and concern, begin to look suspiciously damp before he lowers them again. 

“I’m sorry.It was wrong of me.I didn’t think of how it might look.When I’m working I get focussed.I don’t consider anything outside the case.” 

John nods.

“It doesn’t mean I was right in that,” Sherlock finishes.

John huffs softly.

“I’m very bad at this,”Sherlock admits with a smile, and when John looks up again all that remains of his previous emotion is a slight redness to his eyes. 

He smiles back.“Yeah.You are.”John smiles a little wider.“Me too.”

“A perfect match then.”Sherlock grins.“This should go swimmingly.”

John laughs outright.

“Shall we make a rule?”Sherlock offers.

John’s brow wrinkles.“Oh yeah?What rule?”

“No talk of work here.”

“Seems fair.”

“Good.”

John leans back in a relieved slouch.“You want to come back here?”

Sherlock leans back, and presses against the curve of John’s ribs,and lets his head settle against his good shoulder. 

John’s fingers weave into his hair, and settle.“This okay?”

Sherlock nods.

“Can you say it for me?”

“Mmm.Yes.Fine.”

“Your hair feels nice like this.”

“Clean?”

“Soft.”

“Mmm.”

“Can I rub your scalp?”

“Yes.”

The pads of John’s fingers are small and square.Sherlock has memorised the size and shape of them already, but the sensation of them rubbing slow circles against his scalp is something new, something he never could have properly conjured in his own imagination even with all the data available to him.

The sensation of it is electric, spreading with surprising speed, from his scalp, down his spine, radiating outward to every limb and digit, radiating downward where it blooms warm, andfull, and throbbing.His breath catches in surprise, and he pulls away.

John lifts his hand in surrender.“Sorry.Sorry.You okay?”

Sherlock nods, because it’s all he can manage, but he can tell by the way John’s brows are knit together that he isn’t buying it.

“You sure?I can not do that again if it wasn’t good.”

“No.”

“No, don’t do it again, or no it’s okay?”

“I don’t know.”

John withdraws a little more, and it takes every ounce of Sherlock’s self-control to not follow after him, climb on top of him, pull him close, and…

“I should go.”

John frowns.“But you just got here.”

“Yes, but I—I should really go.”Sherlock pushes to his feet and heads for the closet, and his clothes, wills his body to settle and calm.

John is close on his heels.“Listen, if that, what I just did, was turning you on, it’s fine.I can not do it again, or if it felt good, and you want more, I can give you a few minutes, and then we can just ignore that, okay.It’s okay if it turns you on.It’s totally normal.”

“I know it is!”He snaps, and then instantly regrets it. 

Sherlock’s cheeks are burning hot.He’s decided he hates everything.He hates his traitorous brain, and his overactive nervous system.He hates his body for deciding that here and now would be an appropriate time to realise it’s touch starved.He hates John Watson for his sea-dusk blue eyes, and his small, square hands, and his body that is soft and strong all at once, all the while smelling of honey, and tea and verbena.And he hates himself most of all, for getting up off the sofa, and frantically rooting through the cramped little closet for his clothes, and dashing for the loo where he’s now standing, back against the door, head spinning, blood singing, cock half hard in his pants. 

Ridiculous!

_Stupid!Weak!Idiotic!_

He hears John sigh on the other side of the door.“We really have to stop doing this, ending sessions this way.I won’t touch you anymore if it’s not working for you, okay.But please stay.We can—watch a film, or play a board game.I don’t know.I just don’t want you to feel like things didn’t work for you.”

Sherlock hears him sigh again when he doesn’t answer.“Listen, I’m just going to go back in there, and…I don’t know,” he mutters quietly and leaves.

Sherlock frowns down at his cock.“Rude.”It twitches, and he scowls, and then lets his head fall back against the door with a dull thud.This has never happened in the presence of another person, before.How dare it choose this moment and this person!

He could take care of it, he supposes, but it seems ‘not on’ to masturbate in a near stranger’s loo.He’ll just wait.He goes and sits on the closed lid of the toilet and wills the cold porcelain to work its magic.

He can hear John puttering about the kitchenette outside.He’s running the microwave, by the sound of it.After awhile the inviting scent of freshly popped popcorn floats under the door, and things have resolved themselves enough that Sherlock feels free to exit the loo once more.

“Made popcorn,” John offers from the futon, lifting the paper bag in his hand in a gesture obviously designed to draw away Sherlock’s gaze as John’s eyes drop briefly to his shorts and flit away again.“Thought we could watch something.What do you like?”

_Ahh, so they aren’t going to talk about it, then…_

“I don’t watch films.”

John’s mouth twists in confusion.“What?Never?!”

“I don’t see the point.”

John just shakes his head and sets the bag of popcorn in his lap, before fishing out a handful and popping some kernels into his mouth.“The point,” he mumbles around a mouthful, “is entertainment.Just switch off, have fun.”

“I see.”

John grins.“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t.”Sherlock confirms, and John pats the futon beside him.

“Just come and sit down, and we’ll find something.”

Sherlock does, and John passes him the bag of popcorn, while he scrolls through his choices on some online, streaming film service.“What about James Bond?”

“James who?”

“James Bon…Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know who James Bond is?!”

“Should I?” 

Of course he knows who James Bond is, but he doesn’t want John to think him too common, and besides, he can tell that John is rather delighted at the opportunity to have one up on him, and tell him all about it, so he figures it justifies the little, white lie.

“Oh my god!Okay, we are definitely watching this.I’m starting you off with Dr. No.Gotta start at the beginning.It’s a good one.Ursula Andress.”He cocks a brow like this should mean something.Sherlock just shakes his head.

“You do realise that this film is likely much longer than the forty-five minutes, or so, we have left.”

John stuffs some more popcorn in his mouth, and waves a hand dismissively.“Oh don’t worry about that.Consider it gratis ‘cause of the head-petting thing.”

“I liked the head-petting thing.”Sherlock figures he should set things straight.No need for John to be walking around thinking his performance was poor.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.My discomfort had nothing to do with your skill.Quite the contrary—actually.”

John’s eyes flit away from his, and he clicks play, and then sets his laptop back on the small tv tray he’s set up in front of the futon.“Yeah, well…”The first strains of the iconic theme begin to play, and John pretends to fiddle with the volume.“That’s good to know.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Why must you be this way about everything?Now stop all this fussing, and be still!”

Mummy is wearing her most serious of expressions.It is the combination of firm, set mouth, wrinkled brow, and flared nostrils that means she is done with words and about to turn to action.It means he needs to stop—feeling.Now.

“You will never improve if you don’t apply yourself.You’re already languishing far behind where your brother was at your age, a whole summer wasted in that hospital, and all for nothing.You’d best listen to Dr. Carlton.”

“Yes, I think we have it handled, Mrs. Holmes.”

Dr. Carlton is an ageing academic, a colleague of his mothers.He’s here to fix.There is a price to pay if Sherlock doesn’t adhere to his methods. 

He feels like rebelling on principle, but he’s beginning to realise that they are right, in a way.He is different.Broken perhaps?The other children have let him know that again, and again, and he’s tried to be like them, tried to fit in, but it just never seems to work out.His brother says the other children aren’t worth his time, so far below his level as to be almost insignificant.Little specks of dust with no purpose but to distract and mar the clarity of his vision.He’s not so sure…

His mother has left at some point.Dr. Carlton is looking at him expectantly.He’s missed something.He shakes his head.

“I’ve asked you to please look at the card, and name aloud the pictures you see there.For instance…”Dr. Carlton points at the picture of a beach ball.“Ball.”He speaks slowly, and with an even drawl that suggests he thinks Sherlock’s brain to be damaged in some way.

Sherlock blinks down at the card.They think he’s an idiot simply because he hasn’t spoken a word in six months.It’s exhausting.There’s no point.Why should he speak just to please them?Why should he when the weight of everything he had lost in the Spring is still pressing down on his shoulders, his chest, his throat, making it feel like he can’t breathe most days, let alone speak.

“If you complete this exercise, you may have your toy back.”

Sherlock stares across the cluttered office to a chair under the window.His plush dog is sitting there, staring forlornly in his direction.He feels slightly guilty, leaving it abandoned to a fate of isolation not all that unlike his own. 

Logically he knows the toy isn’t sentient.It isn’t Redbeard.Redbeard is gone and never coming back, but he can’t help what he feels, and when he looks at the those amber glass eyes, staring at him across the dusty expanse of the office, golden with late autumn light, and lined with old books filling the space with the scent of benzaldehyde, vanillin, toluene and ethyl benzene, he yearns to gather him up and draw him close with an ache so fierce it almost registers as pain.

He shakes his hands to rid them of the prickling, electric urge.

One of Dr. Carlton’s, cold, wrinkled hands settles atop his, and Sherlock snatches it away.

“Still hands,” he admonishes.

Sherlock frowns, and tucks his hands under his thighs, where he can press the tingles from his fingers in peace.

“Very good.Now, the card.Name the items for me, please.”

Sherlock thinks he might try if only to get out and into the sunshine.

He stares down at the picture of a dog house.He thinks it particularly cruel.

There are dust motes dancing in the sunlight coming through the window.Outside on the college green, a man is kissing a woman beneath a giant oak tree, while golden leaves rain down around them.He watches the man stroke a hand over the woman’s hair, watches the way she stares up into his eyes with a look not unlike the one Redbeard used to turn on him when he would scratch behind his ears.

It might be pleasant to be petted in such a way.

Cold, boney fingers wrap around his upper arm, and he hisses, his attention immediately drawn back to the task at hand.

“Eyes facing me, Sherlock.You are too much distracted.Look at the card, and tell me the name of the objects!”The fingers close in a vice-like grip, and then release.

Dr. Carlton is getting frustrated.He’ll lose his temper soon.Everyone always seems to lose their temper with Sherlock these days.He’s started to look forward to it.At least it’s real and visceral.It’s better than the careful, studied way people usually react to him.It’s better than being treated like you are deficient in some way, than all the pity and false kindness, the little social games adults seem to play to make believe they’re good.

Dr. Carlton sighs.Sherlock stares at the small blood stain on the placket of his white shirt, and wonders how it got there.It’s old.It’s gone through several washes and never come out.Perhaps he nicked himself shaving, a small, clean, domestic wound.

Not like the kinds that cause real pain—or death.

_Intestines spilled over warm gravel, mangled fur, yelping, silence, a light going out…_

“Whatever is wrong?”

Sherlock is crying, he realises.It seems wrong to leave the substitute Redbeard alone on his chair any longer.He gets up.

“Sit down!We are not…No.No.You know the rules.You’re not to have your toy until…”

Dr. Carlton is grabbing him, and so he drops, just drops, dead weight to the floor, and he keens, and keens, and keens.

“It’s okay.”

_Of course it isn’t._

“Sherlock….Sherlock, hey.Shh…It’s okay.Wake up.It’s okay.”

_John._

“Hey.”John is hovering over him, looking down.He can feel the warmth of him, over, and around.He smells mussy with sleep.He looks…

A small sound escapes Sherlock’s throat.

_Embarrassing._

“Hey.You were dreaming, I think.You’re okay.You’re at my flat.You remember?”

John’s hand is petting his head, slow, steady strokes.Flat palm against burning scalp.Sherlock lets his eyes slide shut, tries to remember how to breathe, how to form words other than…

“John.”

“It’s okay…It’s okay.”John’s hand is on his face, and he turns into it, without thought, seeking out the warmth, and the scent, and the sensation.He turns his face into John’s hand, he turns his body into John’s arms, pulls John in tight against his chest, and holds on like his life depends on it.

John lets him.

“Just a dream.”And somehow John is on top of him, a lovely, steady anchor, a weight, holding him down to earth to keep him from flying off into the dark shadows of his dreams again.

“This okay?”

Sherlock nods, and John doesn’t force him to say it this time, and he’s grateful.

“If you want me off, just push me off.It’s fine.”

Sherlock tightens his grip, eyes still shut, feels John’s breath wafting against his eyelashes, his lips.He opens his mouth and breathes John’s breath, and when John's forehead presses against his, when his nose brushes against his, it isn’t a surprise.It’s welcome. 

It’s welcome.

He opens his eyes.

John’s eyes are closed.He has the longest eyelashes Sherlock has ever seen.There is one tiny blood vessel running like a bluish vine beneath the thin skin of his right eyelid.The pores on his nose are larger than elsewhere.His hair is ruffled, and lying soft against his forehead, which is mapped with lines.

He is perfect.

Sherlock feels this perfection in his own body like a sweet heat and in his heart like a safe harbour.John’s weight, and scent, and breath corralling his frantic nervous system. 

John’s breath that has grown more shallow, more quick.

Sherlock runs a finger up the length of John’s spine, counts the vertebra he can feel beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt, catalogues the way John’s muscles shift, and tense, and release at the touch, the way his nose slides against Sherlock’s and his lips draw so close that Sherlock wonders if he is possibly thinking of pressing them to his.

John shifts again, and then goes very still.Sherlock can barely feel his breath now.He traces spirals and lines over his back, because John is letting him, he’s not saying stop.He’s only still.

“Is it alright?”

_Ah, words.Good._

“Yeah.”John whispers back.His eyes open.“You okay?”

“Yes.”Sherlock lets his own slide shut again, blocking out the grey dawn, slowly illuminating the world outside.“We fell asleep.”

“Yeah.”

He should offer to pay more.It’s only fair.He opens his mouth to say so.

“Don’t you dare say a thing about money.”John’s head has dropped, his face pressed into Sherlock’s neck, breath warm and damp against his skin.

Sherlock does as he’s told.

John’s body moves with his breath, like swells on the sea, and Sherlock can feel each muscle rise and fall, thighs, chest, abdomen.He can feel John’s smooth, small knuckles graze his temple, the backs of his nails whisper over one cheekbone, and John’s nose presses against the hinge of his jaw as he slowly grows hard between them.

Sherlock is supposed to ignore it.The rules.But it is rather prominent, and frustratingly difficult to disregard.Sherlock’s curiosity has always been an insatiable, unruly thing, and his fingers twitch to go exploring.Everything else about John is so extraordinary.He’s fairly certain that this part of him will be no exception.

“You can tell me to stop.”John’s voice is ragged against Sherlock’s earlobe.His fingers are making their way into the curls wrapped around the shell of Sherlock’s ear.His lips follow, whisper over the tender skin just behind Sherlock’s ear, making his breath catch.

“You should tell me to stop.”John’s lips press against his skin, and Sherlock stops breathing for a moment, feels heady and high, like he’s opening up, unfurling like the petals of a rose, velvety soft and slow, like John’s lips against his neck, like John’s breath against his ear, like John’s fingers fisting in his hair, and John’s hips rocking almost imperceptibly against his, like he maybe doesn’t know he’s moving at all, like he’s trying not to.

John is rock hard now, trembling a little.

Sherlock’s neck is wet.

“Are you okay?”

John shakes his head against Sherlock’s cheek.

“We should stop?”

A puff of a breath explodes over Sherlock’s neck, cool against the damp of John’s tears smeared against his skin.“Sorry.Jesus, I…Fuck.”John sits up suddenly, and Sherlock has to stop himself from following on instinct, an almost magnetic pull.

John is sitting on the edge of the futon.He buries his face in his hands.“Shit.”

His hands are trembling, and Sherlock props himself up on one elbow, and wonders if he should touch him.He reaches out and lays a hand carefully against the base of his spine.

“Christ, I’m sorry,”John mumbles into his hands.

“For what?”

John looks over his shoulder, incredulous, eyes red-rimmed.“The thing that just happened—that shouldn’t have happened.I was…”His eyes fill.“Way out of line.”He whispers.

Sherlock sits up, and presses his shoulder against John’s.“We weren’t on the clock.”

John leans into him.“What?”

“I paid for an hour.We fell asleep.When we woke up you told me not to mention money.This isn’t a session.”

John huffs, and Sherlock reaches out to hook a single finger over one of John’s.“It’s fine.”

“It’s really not,” John insists.

Sherlock removes his hand.“Would you like me to go?”

John says nothing.

“I should.I should go.I’ve far outworn my welcome.”

“No it’s…”

“No.I’ll go.”

He gets to his feet, goes to fetch his clothes.

“Hey.”

Sherlock stops, but doesn’t turn around.

“This wasn’t your fault.I need you to know that.”

And Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond, so he simply fetches his clothes, changes, and leaves without another word.

* * *

 

The week is busy, and Sherlock relishes in it.He lets himself get lost in the case.He doesn’t think about John Watson, or his plain, tidy little flat, his impossibly long eyelashes, or his small, strong body.Instead he tells Lestrade’s team about John Clay, and is summarily called in when they find his corpse in an abandoned warehouse in Peckham.Poisoned.An ugly business too, hydrofluoric acid, not a pretty way to go.

Ms. Adler finds out, somehow, and he has a series of very insistent texts from her that end withhim on the doorstep of her Belgravia home on Friday afternoon, and being let in by none other than her wife, Kate (who seems to conveniently also be her P.A.).He tries very hard not to think about John when he sees the way Kate casually lays a hand on Adler’s shoulder when dropping off a cup of tea, or when she unconsciously picks a wayward hair from off the back of her dress before leaving again.

“I told you,” Adler whispers harshly, the minute Kate is out of the room.“I told you you would find him dead, and now you have, and don’t you think for a minute that it isn’t a warning for me.”And when Sherlock arches a brow suggesting mightn’t she just be being a wee bit hysterical: “Kate’s father made his money in refrigeration.And where is the majority of hydrofluoric acid used?”

Sherlock sighs.“I see.And she is still insistent on you keeping this code to yourself?”

Irene throws up her hands in frustration and defeat, and Sherlock can’t help but feel sympathy for her situation.There is nothing more confusing, trying (or intoxicating), than a person with an unfailingly strong and unyielding moral compass.

All in all, it is a rather pointless jaunt across the city, and so he is more put out than he would usually be when he arrives back at his flat only to find his brother, Mycroft, seated in one of the chairs by the hearth.

“What are you doing here?”

Mycroft is impeccably dressed in a conservative three-piece suit, as always.He traces a single finger lazily over the surface of the tea table beside his chair, and then rubs the pads of his fingers together, before dropping his hand to his lap with a deep sigh.“You cannot imagine the trouble I’ve had tracking you down.”

Sherlock scowls.“Did it ever occur to you that that was due to me not wanting to be found?”

“I provided you with a perfectly good flat on Montague Street.Can you manage, do you think, to not alienate the landlord of every single establishment I procure for you?Or do you actually prefer to live in this…”He glances around himself and wrinkles his nose in distaste.“Squalor.”

“I’m perfectly capable of making my own way.”

“Is that so?And if I were to search this flat, right now, are you telling me that I wouldn’t turn up even the slightest little sweetie?”

“Why are you here?”Sherlock insists.

Mycroft sighs and digs the tip of his umbrella into the carpet, turning it in small circles.“You’ve taken a client, a Ms. Adler.”

“Since when are you interested in my clients?”

“Since your clients have started stealing classified information.”

“She didn’t steal it.”

Mycroft’s umbrella stills, and he stares up at him, eyes narrowed.“You’re defending her.Why?”

“Because I know the full story, and you don’t.”

Mycroft’s lips press into a straight line and then stretch into a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.“You know what I allow you to know.Be careful, Little Brother, some things go far deeper than you realise.”

Sherlock decides to feign disinterest.He heads for the kitchen and puts a kettle on.

“You will tell me what it is she has,” Mycroft attempts to order from the lounge.

“I imagine you already know what she has, or you wouldn’t be here.So, I’m curious—just why does it matter so much to you?”

“Unnecessary information, Brother Mine.”

“Mm, then you won’t mind terribly if I keep some things to myself, as well.”

Mycroft appears at the entrance to the kitchen.“You appear to be keeping a great many things to yourself, of late—your whereabouts, your cases, the status of your sobriety, and your sudden interest in sex.”

Sherlock kicks himself for the way his eyes suddenly snap away from the teacup in front of him.It gives away too much.

His brother just looks smug.“Really, Sherlock?And to debase yourself so much that you are willing to pay for what you could quite easily procure anywhere.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”He can feel his cheeks heating much to his irritation.

“John Watson: Professional _Cuddler_.My, what ridiculous little euphemisms people insist upon these days.”

“It isn’t.It’s an accurate description of what he does, and I fail to see what you think it has to do with me.He was a suspect on a case.That’s all.”

Mycroft looks at him like he doesn’t believe a word, but he lets it lie.“I’m afraid you _will_ need to tell me what it is Ms. Adler has stolen.”

“Photographed.”

“If you prefer.”

“A code.I haven’t even seen it myself.She doesn’t know what it is, and she’s less concerned with the code itself than she is with who else is interested in it.”

“Who?”Mycroft’s whole tone and demeanour has changed.

Sherlock is tempted to lie, to keep this one little thing to himself, but there is something about the way that his brother’s face has blanched, and his brows have knit together in something that Sherlock might almost interpret as worry in someone else, that makes him decide to be forthright.

“She only has a name.”

“What name?!”Mycroft snaps, a strange sort of panic breaking through his usual calm veneer.

Sherlock lifts the cup of tea he is fixing in his brother’s direction.“Sugar?”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock dumps a spoonful of sugar into the cup. 

“Moriarty.”

Mycroft has to lean on his umbrella for support.“You’re to stay out of this, do you understand.”

“Last time I checked you don’t get to dictate the cases I take.”

“Sherlock.”His voice is tense.

Sherlock sighs.“I can hardly leave Ms. Alder to the wolves, now can I.”

“I will deal with Ms. Adler.”

“And why do I get the impression that that won’t end well for her?”

“Leave it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs heavily, and dumps the tea he’s just prepared for his brother down the sink.“Fine.Now go.”

Mycroft does.Or almost does.Sherlock is just breathing a sigh of relief when…

“Oh, and Sherlock, if this new little distraction of yours is another of those things that is going to end with me tracking you down in a dosshouse minutes before you succumb to overdose, do do me a favour and end it now.Things at work are rather busy at the moment, and I don’t have time for your usual dramatics.”

Sherlock sweeps into the lounge and takes up his violin.

* * *

 

It’s dark outside when he finally lowers the instrument from his chin and sniffs the air delicately.

_Roast chicken, potatoes, carrots._

He startles a little when he turns to find Mrs. Hudson setting a plate for him at the desk in the lounge.“That kitchen is a disaster, young man.It isn’t a chemistry lab.You need to clear those things away.Whatever will your clients think?”

Sherlock nabs a small piece of chicken off the plate and pops it into his mouth, before delicately sucking the chicken fat from the tips of his fingers.“My clients don’t think, that’s why they come to me.”

“You sit down and eat.You’ve been on the run all week, and if I didn’t know better I’d think you hadn’t slept or ate since Monday.”

“Unnecessary indulgences.”

“Sleep and food are not an indulgence, nor are they unnecessary, as you daily prove.You’re white as a sheet, and you’re going to need a belt to hold those trousers up soon.Eat.The whole plate, and then you should go to bed.”

“Mmm…”He does sit down and dig in, because the food does smell good, and the case has now hit a bit of a snag, and he needs time to think—really think—and that will have to wait until he’s caught at least a few hours.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t leave until he’s cleared his plate, and she points a finger down the hallway to his bedroom as she gathers the dishes and leaves again.

He goes, because the day has been a frustration and a waste, and he can think of nothing better to do.He is tired, he suddenly realises, too tired to even shower.He strips, folds his clothes neatly over the arm of the chair beside his wardrobe and then flops down on the mattress, naked, and stares at the ceiling.

For the first time in days he lets his thoughts wander fully back to John.He has not heard from him since their last session.Not a single text, email or call.True, he too has tried to distance himself, to give his mind space to do whatever it does that eventually makes these sort of things make sense, or at the very least, to lessen the sting of them.But the fact that John has not even attempted to reach out does grate at him a little.

John’s scruples are somewhat irritating.There was nothing unpleasant about what had occurred between them. On the contrary, Sherlock had felt grounded and even safe in ways he rarely does in the presence of another person.And he fails to see why John’s unexpected erection should be so offensive, when John himself had insisted that Sherlock’s was completely innocuous.Touch is stimulating.The body responds.It’s all very natural.John’s little foibles regarding such things are utterly ridiculous.

Sherlock sits up, and reaches for his phone, and then lies back down again.He’s bored.

> Bored.

He stares at the screen and waits.

Nothing.

Unfortunate.

> BORED.

Sherlock scowls down at his phone when no response is forthcoming.

> Tedious.

Finally the trio of pulsing dots appears, and Sherlock stares hard at it, waiting…

> **I’m with a client.**

He tries to ignore the sour knot that forms in the pit of his stomach at that.  
 ****

> And yet, you’re texting me.
> 
>  
> 
> **If you want another appointment,**
> 
> **send me an email.**
> 
>  
> 
> I don’t.  
>  ****
> 
>  
> 
> **Then what do you want?!**
> 
>  
> 
> To see you.  
>  ****
> 
>  
> 
> **Will call you later.**
> 
>  
> 
> Fine.  
>  ****

Sherlock throws a hand over his head with a sigh, feels the phone vibrate in his palm, and quickly snatches it back.

> **You okay?**

He smiles.  
 ****

> As I’ve said—bored.
> 
>  
> 
> **And that’s a first class emergency, is it?**
> 
>  
> 
> You have no idea.  
>  ****
> 
>  
> 
> **Will be finished with this client in 10 min.**
> 
> **Will text you then.**

Sherlock sighs.He’s cold, but too lazy to get under the blankets.There’s a spider crawling along the ceiling.Tegenaria parietina?Rare-ish.He’s tempted to get up and collect it, but Mrs. Hudson’s warm chicken dinner is starting to take effect, and he feels drowsy, limbs heavy.  
 ****

The vibration of the phone in his hand, wakes him with a start.He blinks at it blearily.

> **You can’t just text me whenever you**
> 
> **feel like it you know.**
> 
>  
> 
> You want me to pay?  
>  ****
> 
>  
> 
> **That’s not what I mean and you know it.**
> 
>  
> 
> Well then, what do you mean?
> 
>  
> 
> **I mean I have a life.I have a job.**
> 
> **You can’t just have access to me**
> 
> **whenever it suits you.**
> 
>  
> 
> I see.Shall I let you go, then?

There is a long pause.

> **Client is gone now.**
> 
>  
> 
> Any others?
> 
>  
> 
> **No.**
> 
>  
> 
> Good.
> 
>  
> 
> **You said you were bored?**
> 
>  
> 
> Deciding if I will sleep or not.
> 
>  
> 
> **Oh yeah?And what did you decide?**
> 
>  
> 
> I decided that you should talk to me.
> 
>  
> 
> **So, I see.And what am I supposed to**
> 
> **say?**
> 
>  
> 
> Tell me about your client.
> 
>  
> 
> **Nope.**
> 
>  
> 
> What?Why not?
> 
>  
> 
> **None of your business, that’s why.**
> 
>  
> 
> Confidentiality again?
> 
>  
> 
> **There you go.**
> 
>  
> 
> If I’d known you were going to be so
> 
> boring, I would have opted for sleep.
> 
>  
> 
> **Oh, by all means.Don’t let me keep you!**
> 
>  
> 
> Wait!John…
> 
>  
> 
> **Yeah.**
> 
>  
> 
> Where were you this week?
> 
>  
> 
> **Could ask you the same thing.**
> 
>  
> 
> Is this because of your erection?
> 
>  
> 
> **Jesus.**
> 
>  
> 
> I fail to see what he has to do with it.
> 
>  
> 
> **You’re impossible.**
> 
> **I was giving you space.**
> 
> **Wanted to give you time to process it,**
> 
> **decide if you wanted to come back.**
> 
>  
> 
> It was an erection not a marriage proposal.

Sherlock regrets the text the moment it’s sent.He sits up, crosses his legs, and nibbles at a hangnail on the corner of his thumb while he waits for John’s response.It’s a long time coming.

> **That’s not happened before.I guess maybe**   
>  ****
> 
> **I wanted some time to process it too.**
> 
>  
> 
> Oh.
> 
>  
> 
> **I think we shouldn’t see each other for awhile.**

Sherlock’s chest goes tight.  
 ****

> I see.
> 
>  
> 
> **I can recommend you another practitioner.**
> 
>  
> 
> Don’t bother.It was an experiment.Nothing more.
> 
> It has now concluded.Thank you for time and trouble. 
> 
> Good-bye.
> 
>  
> 
> **Oi!Wait a minute.**

But Sherlock doesn’t reply.He doesn’t want to reply.   
 ****

He stares down at his phone with a feeling of loathing so overwhelming that all he can think to do is toss the thing across the room, as far from himself as he can manage.It makes a very satisfying sound as it bounces off the wall and clatters behind his wardrobe, and he curls tight on the bed and stares at a loose thread in the coverlet, and hates his brother with a hate so fierce it makes him see red.

Why must he always be right?!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Please note that there is #drug use and #suicidal ideation in this chapter.

The Thames flows like a silken, mourning ribbon under Vauxhall bridge.Sherlock watches the undulating smear of the city lights reflecting on its inky surface, and exhales a slow cloud of smoke out into the cold pre-dawn air.

Three days.He has managed three days, but now here he is, and the clubs and alleys are calling, and he really can’t see why he should bother extending his recent trend in sobriety.His brother was right, just as he always is—about everything.

_He will always be somewhat immature, socially, and it will encumber his successes, do you understand?Your expectations need to be lowered._

He tosses the cigarette butt into the cold night air, watches it plunge downward and extinguish itself beneath the murky depths.He wonders momentarily what it might feel like to be so extinguished. 

The water is just barely above freezing this time of year.If he managed to go in feet first there would be the slap and sting of the water, and then the slowing of his heart, the shock of it, easing his passage, making the drowning so much easier to bear until the frantic struggle at the very end.But all death is a struggle, and it is swift at least, not like life’s struggles, which just seem to go on, and on, and on…

He glances down the length of the bridge towards the SIS building, and wonders if his brother is watching from one of the blacked out squares of glass above.Would he care if Sherlock climbed up on this railing, and stepped off into the darkness, or would be silently relieved to finally be free of the burden?

No, at this hour he is probably in bed, getting a few hours of sleep before breakfasting on Oolong and melon, and an unending mountain of paperwork he will attend to until some crises or another calls him away to the office.But even in his absence, he will be watching, of that much Sherlock is certain.Mycroft is always watching, eyes and ears everywhere. 

There is no escape. 

Sherlock should accept it.Like a lab animal, he has always had one purpose and one alone.Their little experiment—Mycroft’s and Mummy’s.

He considers going home, but he’s used up all the cocaine there.His brother had been right in that, too.There was a tiny stash in the bottom of his sock drawer.He’d succumbed to that at breakfast, and now he feels the need for a little something more.Just to wipe the cobwebs from his brain, just to help him find his next distraction, and to quell the unceasing ache and longing in blood and bone.

It takes him less than an hour to track down his usual supplier.Top quality.The hit is strong, exactly what he needed, and he does hail a cab after that, heads straight home in the grey dawn, praying that he can ride the high long enough to track down another case of interest in his inbox.Pickings have been meagre, and he’s felt too distracted to dissemble the details enough to pick something of quality.

But when he finally gets back to the flat, fate meets him at the door—in the form of Mrs. Hudson.

“Where were you?”She narrows her eyes at him, and then clearly recognising his state, clucks her tongue.“You’d best pull yourself together.You have a client.”

“What?”

“Yes.Showed up here at 4:30 in the morning, can you imagine?!And he’s insisted on waiting, says it’s very urgent.”

Sherlock feels a thrill light up inside him.“Excellent!You are a gem, Mrs. Hudson, a gem!”He kisses her soundly on the forehead, and then bounds up the stairs, only stopping once he gets to the landing to lean down.“Tea if you please!”

“I’m not your housekeeper!”She admonishes, but he knows that she will bring it anyway.

His mood is improving by the second as he sweeps up the last of the stairs and into the lounge.“Good-morning.And to what do I owe…”

He stops abruptly as John Watson looks up from the red armchair by the hearth.

“Hey.”

Sherlock stares.He can feel his heart rate pick up, and the corners of his eyes bite.

“Why…?”His voice cracks and he swallows once before trying again.“Why are you here?”

“You the only one who can make a business appointment every time you want to have a chat?Didn’t like the way things were left, and you’ve been ignoring my texts, so…”

Sherlock stares some more.

John frowns, eyes taking him in.Sherlock sees the moment he makes his diagnosis.“Here, you high?”

Sherlock ignores the question.“Is there really a case?”

“The case of why you keep running out on me, yeah?”

“I’m not the one who wanted to sever our professional relationship.”

John sighs, but he’s getting to his feet now.Sherlock bolts for the kitchen, but John follows.leans against the counter and watches Sherlock fill two mugs with too much loose tea, and some for the countertop besides, and then strides forward, and reaches out for Sherlock’s wrist.

His skin burns where John touches him.

“Sit down.”There is a tone to John’s voice that brooks no refusal.It’s not harsh, but there is an authority to it that immediately reminds Sherlock that he is dealing with a soldier and a doctor, and not just some fly-by-night eccentric with a penchant for alternative therapies.

Sherlock pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and plops down, legs splayed out haphazardly in a show of louche disinterest. 

John is wholly unaffected.He takes two steps forward and leans down to stare at Sherlock’s pupils, reaches out, grabs his wrist, takes his pulse.Thus satisfied, he pulls back the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt and scowls down at the fresh track marks.

“You shoot it?”And when Sherlock tries to look imperious and fails…“You at least using clean needles?”

Sherlock feels mildly chastised.He nods.

“Every time?”

He nods again.

“And you know your supplier?You know you’re getting clean stuff?”

Sherlock nods again.

“It will kill you, you know, that stuff.”

“I use it to think.I have my use perfectly in control.”

“Says every addict ever.”

Sherlock scowls.“I’m not an addict.”

“And yet here you are, three days after our row, three days after you went M.I.A., and you’re higher than a kite.”

Sherlock scoffs.“You give yourself a great deal of credit, Doctor.”

He instantly regrets it when the fond frustration and concern he thinks he’s observed since first laying eyes on John here in his flat, disappears in an instant, and is replaced, first with something that almost looks like hurt, and then is swiftly followed upon by anger. 

John sniffs and balls a fist up by his side.“You want me to go?”

“Do what you want, I couldn’t care less.”

_What is wrong with you?!!!_

“So just to be clear, I could walk out of here, right now, and never come back, and that’s fine by you.”

“Yes.Why wouldn’t it be?”

A muscle in John’s jaw jumps.He jerks his head once, turns on his heel and marches down the stairs.Sherlock hears the front door slam, hears Mrs. Hudson’s small exclamation of surprise from the foyer, and then suddenly he is on his feet, down the stairs and out the front door before he even realises how he got there.

John is halfway down the street, marching with remarkable speed toward the tube station.Traffic is picking up.The sun is getting brighter.Everything is…

Sherlock has to run to catch up. 

“John.”He jogs up behind him and takes his arm, sees the way John’s whole body goes instantly tense and alert in the split second before his brain registers who it is who has grabbed him, and then relaxes again.

“What?”

And now that Sherlock is here, he doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know what this is.”He admits.He can hear a desperation in his voice that he very much feels, but doesn’t understand at all.

“What?”John bites out.

“This.”Sherlock motions between the two of them, somehow trying to sum up whatever it is he has felt between them from the very moment they met.

“Yeah?Well that’s just great, because neither do I.”

“You’re angry?”

“I’m standing in the middle of the fucking street at six in the bloody morning, because I came all the way across town to see if you were okay, to see why we keep doing this, and I find you higher than a kite, and then am booted out on my arse, and yet I…God help me, I still want to stay, still want to…And I hate myself for it.So yeah.Yeah, I’m fucking angry.I’m angry at you.I’m angry at myself.I’m angry at the whole fucking mess!”

John is breathing hard.People are staring.

“I missed you.”Sherlock admits, without thought, and feels his cheeks flame.

“Good.”John snaps.

“I’m sorry.”

John’s shoulders drop.He stares down at the pavement, while people push past them on their way to the tube.When he looks up again his eyes have softened.“Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and John huffs in response, and reaches up to pinch at his brow.

“Listen, can we go somewhere not—here, and talk about this?”

Sherlock nods.“Come back to the flat?”

John jerks his chin in acknowledgement, and follows on Sherlock’s heel as he heads back down the street.

Mrs. Hudson has been and left, leaving tea and biscuits in her wake, but Sherlock doesn’t have time to offer John any, because John has reached out and taken hold of the cuff of his shirt, and is leading him back into the kitchen, into the chair he had only vacated a few moments prior, pushing him down into it and stepping into the V of his legs to stare down at him.

“How long ago was your last hit?”

“Just less than ten minutes before I arrived here at the flat.”

John checks the current time on a wrist watch, which Sherlock finds incredibly ‘John’, and unpredictably endearing, without being able to explain why.

“It starting to wear off?”

Sherlock nods.

“And when did you have a dose before that?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“You shoot that dose too?”

“Yes.”

“And before that.”

“Last summer.”

“That the truth?”

Sherlock nods.

“You wouldn’t lie to me about it?”

Sherlock shakes his head.He wouldn’t, he suddenly realises.He couldn’t.

“This going to be a problem?”

“No.”

John nods.“We’ll see.”He stares down at Sherlock, and then reaches out and pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, fisting his fingers around them in a delicious pull that makes Sherlock’s lips part in an inaudible sigh.

“So, you missed me, eh?”

“Mmm.”

“Missed you too, but I was serious about what I said a few says ago.I really can’t have you as a client anymore.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, and he frowns.

“Wouldn’t be right.”John insists.

Sherlock wants to hate him, but his body is singing with the contact, the sweet tug on his hair almost overriding the pain of the headache starting to develop.“Then why are you here?”He somehow manages.

“‘Cause I couldn’t not be here.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock pouts.

“Yeah?Me neither.”

“Explain!”Sherlock demands, and John chuckles, steps a bit closer, and drops his hands from Sherlock’s hair, to his shoulders, pulls him against his chest, gentle, but sure.

“Would you like to do more of what we’ve been doing?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock murmurs against the buttons of John’s plaid button-down.

“How do you feel about it being something other than professional?”

“You want to make love?”

John barks out a laugh, and pulls away, staring down at Sherlock with soft eyes and a crooked grin.“No.No.I’ve not said…”He shakes his head.“Jesus.I—I just want to keep doing what we have been doing, but not with you as a client.”

Sherlock’s heart flutters in his chest, and he feels momentarily dizzy.His head starts to throb in earnest.“If not a client, then what?”

“I don’t know.Maybe—maybe we don’t have to name it just yet, yeah?”

“You want to have access to my body?For free?”

“No, I…”John’s cheeks flare and then blanch.“Christ, no.”He sighs.“Listen, I’m shit at this.I’m clearly making a hash of this whole thing.I just…I don’t understand what this is, just like you said, out there.”He jerks his chin in the direction of the street. 

“I just know that when you come for a session everything feels—better than it does when you’re not there, and when you’re not there, all I can think about is when you’ll be there next.And we’ve only known one another a couple of weeks, I know that, and I know this is mad, I know I’m probably coming across like a real creeper, but I—I just want to be near you—all the time,” he finishes in a fierce whisper.

Sherlock shivers, aches, thrills, despite the pounding in his head, and the nausea starting to build in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh.I see.”He’s passingly aware that his tone is not communicating the requisite level of ardour, but he really does feel quite distractingly awful.He shoots to his feet.“I’m sorry, I think I’m going to be ill.Excuse me.”

He barely makes it to the loo, and somewhere in the back of his mind he registers the fact that John Watson has just said that he would like to have an intimate physical relationship of some kind, with him, that it might just be the luckiest moment of his life, and now, true to form, he has utterly ruined his chances by turning around and being violently ill.

“Lovely,” he hears at the door of the loo, and tries very much to not sob into the toilet.It’s the last time he shoots coke with Phelps. 

“You need to go to the A&E?”

“No,”Sherlock pants, his voice echoing in the toilet bowl.

“You sure the stuff you got was clean?”John sounds so calm.It’s strange.Sherlock is used to his mother’s hysterics, or his brother’s bland admonitions and biting sarcasm.John just seems resigned and only mildly concerned.

He can hear John moving about.The faucet turns on and then off again.“You done vomiting now?”

“Possibly.”

“Here.Sit up for me.” 

Sherlock pulls his head away from the toilet bowl, and there is John, squatting on the floor beside him.He hands him a glass of water. “Look at me, okay.”

Sherlock does and John squints at his pupils, and then reaches out and presses two fingers to his carotid artery, staring down at his watch as he does.After a few seconds he drops his hand again and lifts a damp flannel to Sherlock’s forehead. 

“Hold your hands out?”

Sherlock does, and is pleased to see they are steady, despite how he feels.

“You want to tell me what day it is?”

“Sunday.February 14th.”

John nods, seemingly satisfied.“Well, good news is, you’ll live.”

“Is that good news?”

John doesn’t say anything to that, just stares, and then reaches out and gently squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder, before getting to his feet with a hiss of discomfort. 

“Rinse your mouth out.”

Sherlock does, and spits into the toilet.John flushes it.

“You staying here, or you want to get into bed?”

“It’s morning.Why would I get into bed?”

“Because you don’t feel well, and you’ve been up all night.”

Sherlock blinks up at John from the too cold floor, in the too bright room.“Will you stay?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

John’s lips curl into a fond smile.“Okay.Let’s go, then.”He reaches down to give Sherlock a hand up, and Sherlock takes it, nods to the door dividing his room from the loo, and lets himself be led through it, lets John turn the bed down, and help him out of his jacket and trousers, and when he finally crawls beneath the covers, even though he feels anything but sleepy, it’s a relief, a relief to see, and hear and smell John in the room.

“You want me to get in there with you?”

Sherlock nods and watches, rapt, as John strips down to his shirt and pants, and then crawls in under the covers, too, and pulls in close.“Nice sheets, these.Like in those posh hotels.”

“They’re Egyptian cotton.”Sherlock explains.“Hand picked so it puts less stress on the fibres, leaves them straight and intact. Longer fibres mean better yarns, and stronger, softer cotton.”

John is grinning.“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

John reaches up and runs a finger down the placket of Sherlock’s shirt.“And what about this, hm?What’s this made out of?”

“A silk and Egyptian cotton blend, with a little elastane for stretch.”

“Mm.Posh.”

“Soft and snug.”

“It is, yeah.”John fiddles a little with one of the buttons, and Sherlock wonders if he might unfasten it, but after a minute, he just lays his hand flat against Sherlock’s chest, and looks up at him.“You feeling any better?”

Sherlock nods.

“You want me to touch you?”

“You are.”

“Mm, true.You want me to touch you some more?”

Sherlock swallows and nods, remembers the last time they were together like this, the weight of John’s body on his, the way he could feel himself settling and lighting up all at once, the way John’s body had moved against his, and a steady, rhythmic pulse, like breathing, like the sea, like life itself, and he wonders how John might touch him this time. 

He doesn’t have long to wait.

John reaches out, and slips an arm under his waist, and another over it, pulls him in close, tangles their limbs.He’s warm, and Sherlock rolls into that warmth on instinct, feels his body light up when John hums in contentment, presses his nose into John’s hair, breathing deep, again, and again, and again, memorising the scent of him.

John huffs.“You smelling me?”

_Oh._

“Not good?”

“Fine.How do I smell?”

“Like the tube.”

John chuckles.“Right.”

John traces a finger down the length of Sherlock’s spine.“Missed this.”

“Did you?”Sherlock murmurs into his hair.

“God, yeah.Didn’t you?”

“More than you know.I didn’t mind, you know.I didn’t mind anything that happened the last time we were together.”

“I know.”John pulls back a little and looks up at him.“I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.Wasn’t professional at all.That was just me plain having a bit of a panic.”

Sherlock frowns, reaches out and pulls John closer.“Why?”

John shrugs, his eyes dropping back to the centre of Sherlock’s chest.“I meant what I said, it had never happened before, not with a client, and not…”

Sherlock presses his nose into John’s hair again, relishes in the way it tickles his nose. 

“Not with another bloke.”

Sherlock pulls back and looks down at him.“You said you took male clients.”

“Yeah—in theory.Also said it had never come up.”

“I was your first male client?”

John nods, still staring at Sherlock’s shirt buttons.

“Your first male—this?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock isn’t sure why but it gives him a tiny, possessive thrill.He nuzzles his nose against John’s scalp, and pushes his thigh between John’s legs, and pulls him close.If he could pull him in and under his skin he thinks he would.To have all of John inside him, pulse to pulse, shared heat, and sweat, and…

He feels the now familiar warmth begin to curl tight in his belly, and decides he had best let his thoughts settle, or they will be right back to the point that had sent them both scrambling two times in a row already. 

John is here, and John has said he wants this, but he wants _this,_ not all the extras that Sherlock has barely given a thought to all these years, but which suddenly seem to be occupying his every waking thought. 

Dreams, too.He had awoken two days prior only to discover that he had spent all over his sheets like an undisciplined teenager.It had been a shock.It was something that hadn’t happened to him since he was seventeen, and he felt an uncharacteristic flush of shame and curiosity in equal measure.Curious that a mere dream could produce such a reaction in his body, ashamed that he’d soiled the sheets and would have to do laundry, which would raise questions he’d rather not discuss with Mrs. Hudson of all people!

He lets his eyes slide shut, goes still, breathes, and feels John’s body start to go lax against his, realises that he is falling asleep, and wonders if John has gone these last three days without sleep, too.Rather selfishly, he hopes so.

He had been missed.

He isn’t sure what to do with such knowledge.

Sherlock has been many things throughout his life.He has been resented, tolerated, hated, humoured, even feared, but he has never been missed.John Watson is clearly remarkable—in all things, and Sherlock has no idea how he has managed to get so lucky.


	7. Chapter 7

John’s body goes heavy in sleep.Sherlock wonders if maybe he could shift their positions so that John was lying atop him, like he had been in their last session, but he thinks it might be a bit not good with John still sleeping, so he has to satisfy himself with the heat and weight of John curled up against his chest, tucked safely beneath his chin.It’s wonderful in it’s own way.

He suspects that John is not naturally a side sleeper.He keeps fidgeting in his sleep. John is lying on his good shoulder, but still, his one leg hurts him, and on his back is probably better.Sherlock pulls back, and gently repositions him.

“Wha’s wrong?”John murmurs, clearly still half asleep, and Sherlock smiles.

“Nothing.Go back to sleep.”

John instantly settles.

A part of Sherlock wishes that his brother could see him here, now, sharing a bed with a beautiful man, wanted, valued.But, another part of him wants to keep it to himself, to hide the two of them from the world, to let nothing sully the perfect happiness he feels right here, right now.The real world is something he will need to face soon enough, and he would rather keep it at bay as long as possible.

Sherlock’s head is still throbbing.He could take something, but if he’s honest he’d rather wait until John wakes up and let him doctor him a little more.He’s discovered it’s a heady thing, nurture.Addictive as any drug.He scoots closer to John and reaches out, traces a finger up and down the arm of his shirt, watches John’s nose wrinkle.He should let him sleep.He should…

John hums low in his throat.“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

Sherlock continues to draw lines up John’s arm, and watches him slowly come awake.

“Tha’s nice.”John smiles, and then opens his eyes and lolls his head to the side.

“I missed you.”Sherlock says, because he thinks that John is not the sort to think ill of him for such neediness.On the contrary, John seems to crave it, being needed, almost as much as Sherlock craves being wanted.

“Was right here,” John mumbles sleepily.

“But your mind was a million miles away.”

John shifts beneath the covers, stretches a little.“Mm.True.Was dreaming about you, though.”

“Were you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What were you dreaming?”

“Dreamed you were in the desert with me.Dreamed there was an ambush and we had to get out.”

“Did we make it?”

John blinks slowly, and smiles.“You woke me up, so yeah.In a way.”

“I have a headache.”Sherlock tells him.

“Oh yeah, well you would, wouldn’t you.”If it’s meant to sound scolding, it doesn’t quite get there.“You want me to try something?”

Sherlock had anticipated the offer of a low dose of paracetamol, but this…

“Alright.”

John smiles.“Sit up for me.”

Sherlock does and John moves around behind him, tries to position himself.“Christ, you’re so bloody tall.”

Sherlock is not tall.They are both about the same distance from the UK average for a man, just on either ends of the spectrum, but he supposes that telling John that he is as short as Sherlock is tall, might not win him any favours, and he’s mad with curiosity about whatever John is about to do.

“Hold on.”John takes a couple of the pillows, sets them behind Sherlock, and then kneels on top of them.“Better.You’ll tell me if this is hurting rather than helping, yeah?”

“Of course.”

And then John’s fingers are sinking into his curls, and rubbing small circles against Sherlock’shead, and Sherlock almost moans with the intensity of it.It briefly crosses his mind that John already knows what this does to him.It makes him wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, and he almost hopes that he is, because now that John is here, and wants this, and has stopped with all his silly little rules and professional scruples, the sky is the limit, and Sherlock is eager to explore each and every thing that John might be able to tease from his body, and to see just what effect he might have on John, in turn.

John’s fingers move down to his temples, work slow circles there, but it’s when he reaches down and begins to massage his earlobes, that Sherlock goes to jelly. 

John chuckles.“You want to lay back a bit?”

He feels John shift off the pillows.His fingers disappear from Sherlock’s head, and then he is stretching out, propping his back against the headboard, and pulling Sherlock into the V of his legs.Sherlock leans back, and rests his head against John’s good shoulder, and John smiles down at him.“Better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” 

And the massage resumes.

“You often get headaches when you’re coming down?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and John pets it for a moment, before starting up again.

“When we met for our interview, you told me you were clean.”John’s voice is a gentle murmur.His fingers continue to work their magic.“Been clean since last summer?That’s a long stretch.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.He doesn’t want to say anything.He wishes John would be quiet, not ruin it.

“You gonna tell me what all this was about?”

“I told you.”

“That it helps you think, yeah.That all it helps?”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because I want to.That okay?”

Sherlock sighs as dramatically as he can manage, twists away from John’s embrace, and curls up on his side, facing away from him.

“I’ve told you why I use.What more is there to discuss?”

“You telling me you use coke to think is like my sister telling me she drinks to sleep, or my dad telling me he did it to relax.Not the whole story.”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder.“Whole family of alcoholics.Codependent then.How could I have missed it?”

John glares, sniffs.“You do realise that saying stuff like that is going to rile me up, right?I mean, you are aware you’re being a dick?”

Sherlock rolls back over and curls tighter.

He hears John sigh.“Listen, nobody uses this stuff for a lark.Christ, even I probably have a drink or two too many sometimes, and don’t you dare tell my sister I said that.Point is, you have to have a reason.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone has a real reason.”

Sherlock unfurls onto his back, and stares at the ceiling.“No.I mean why do you drink too much?”He glances over at John, who looks caught out, and like he wants to go down that path every bit as much as Sherlock wants to go down the one John had just proposed.

John bites down on the inside of his cheek, stares down at his lap, and clenches and unclenches his fist.“Don’t much like feeling.”

_Oh._

Sherlock sits up.

“What do you mean?”

John shrugs.“Things just get too—big sometimes.Drinking brings them back down to size—for awhile anyway.”

“Yes!”John looks up, and Sherlock aches to touch him.“Yes. _That._ It’s the same for me.”

John’s shoulders drop.“Yeah?”

Sherlock nods.

“Come here.”

Sherlock goes.It’s a relief to be cocooned against John’s body again.John’s hands are back in his hair.He lets his eyes slide shut.

“Was it what I did?”John scrubs his fingers gently against Sherlock’s scalp.

“Mm?”

“This time, when things got too big, was it because of how I handled things at our last session?”

“If this is you blaming yourself, don’t.”

John’s hands drop.He wraps them loosely around Sherlock’s torso, one hand resting over his heart, the other a little lower, just above his navel.“This thing…” 

Sherlock tilts his chin and glances up at him.John looks troubled. 

“This thing between us,” he continues.“If we—keep doing things, like the things we’ve been doing, and I leave, or you leave…”

Sherlock’s chest goes tight.“You mean—if the experiment doesn’t end in desirous results?”

John shakes his head.“No, no, not like that, I just mean—sometimes people leave.”

“Yes.”

“And if we keep doing these things, maybe more things, different things, and then one of us…Are you going to be okay?”

“Are you?”

John thinks.Weighing past relationships, no doubt, how he had dealt with those ending, thinking about the uniqueness of what he is exploring with Sherlock, thinking perhaps that it _will_ be experimentation, fun for a while, and then he will move on to other things.

“I don’t know,”he finally admits.

“Then stay.”

John stares down at him, clearly confused.

“Stay, John.”

“What?Here?Sherlock I can’t just…We hardly know each other.”

“And yet neither of us can go more than a few days without feeling every second of the separation ticking away like a prison sentence.”

John doesn’t say anything.He’s looking at Sherlock in way that is making warmth curl and pool in his abdomen, making his mouth water, and his body coil tight in anticipation.

“This is mad,” he finally whispers.

“Most likely.”

John huffs and shakes his head.“I have a job.I have a flat.”

“Stay here.Do something else.”

“Oh, just like that?”

“It’s just a job.I can get you a job.”

John frowns.“I’m not your whore.I don’t need to be kept.”

And here they are again, teetering on the knife’s edge of John’s scruples and pride.Sherlock is irritated beyond belief, but he decides a softer approach is probably in both of their best interests.

“And I never meant to imply it.I only mean that you want to be here, and I want you to be here, and every moment you are not here is a moment we are both unhappy, so…Logically, you should move in and work with me.”

“Think that’s called co-dependance.”

“Well, you would know.”Sherlock punctuates the comment with a wink, and John takes it as he’d intended, and chuckles softly.

“I mean it, though, Sherlock.We hardly know one another.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.There are places in the world where marriages are still arranged, and people fall into lifelong unions with people they’ve never even met before the day of their nuptials.I hardly see why the two of us have to know everything about one another just to share a flat. 

“You know about my habits.You know about my profession, and you clearly already know that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.Oh…”He adds as an afterthought.“I also sometimes go days without speaking, and play the violin when I’m thinking.Do you have any objection to the violin?”

John huffs out a laugh, his face a mask of fond disbelief.“Yeah, okay.Just for the record, though, this is not a marriage!”

It takes Sherlock a moment to register that John in referring to the example he’d just used.He waves a hand dismissively.“Of course not.However, my argument is sound.”

“Your argument is shit, but…”John is grinning now, and Sherlock feels that must be a positive sign.“God help me, if this isn’t a fucking fantastic flat.”

Sherlock nods in agreement.“Excellent location.A landlady who is more generous and tolerant than she has any business being, and even—an extra bedroom upstairs, if you were so inclined.”

“I’m not really—if that’s okay.”

Sherlock’s face warms. “Of course it’s alright.”

“And what job?”

“Mm?”

“You said you have a job for me.”

“You’re a doctor and a soldier.I’m a consulting detective who often encounters the dead or wounded, and who quite frequently has run-ins with dangerous and violent criminals.You would make the perfect assistant.”

“Partner.”

“What?”

“Don’t want to be your assistant.Want to be your partner.”

Sherlock wonders if John realises how it sounds.“Suit yourself.”

John stares up at the ceiling for a moment, and then lets out a giggle.Sherlock is charmed.

“Is that a yes?”

“Umm…Seems like, yeah.”

“Excellent.”Sherlock turns in John’s arms, effectively pushing him down to the mattress, and moulds their bodies together.John’s cheeks go pink, and Sherlock is charmed all over again.“I feel this will be a mutually advantageous arrangement.”

“That so?”John’s eyes find his again.

“Yes.”

“You know, I have to give notice on my flat, I have to give fair warning to my clients.”

Sherlock dips his head down and buries his face in John’s neck.“Ms. Adler?Oh, don’t mind her.She has bigger things to worry about at the moment.”

“Not just her.”

Sherlock sighs, and John chuckles, and slides a hand into the curls at Sherlock’s nape. 

“I’ll do my best to wrap things up over the next month.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.“A whole month!” 

John shrugs.“Can’t be helped.”

Sherlock sighs mightily, and rolls off of John to flop onto his back.“Fine…”

John follows, climbs on top of him, and sits down on Sherlock’s thighs, staring down at him with an expression that makes Sherlock warm all over.“You’re such a demanding arse.”An expression that is in direct contrast to the words Sherlock is so used to associating with nothing but cruelty.

John reaches down and drags the blunt of his nails over Sherlock’s ribs.“How’d I get so lucky, hm?”

Sherlock stares at the ceiling because it’s easier.“I rather think it’s the other way ‘round.”

When he finally is able to look John in the eye, again, he finds John’s eyes soft.Perhaps a little sad?But mostly just incredibly full of—something, something indefinable.

Sherlock reaches up and lays his hands on John’s knees. They’re bare, and warm, and his thighs are lightly peppered with fine, blonde hair.Sherlock rubs his thumbs over the inside of of John’s knees, and then pushes his hands a half inch higher.

“May I?”

John looks down a Sherlock’s hands, and then back up to his eyes.“You going to be okay if it turns me on?”

Sherlock feels a surge of pleasure burst in his his chest, and rush downward.He sucks in a small breath of surprise at the intensity of it.“Will you be?”

John licks his lips.Sherlock can see his nipples peak beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.“Think so, yeah.Will tell you if—if I need to stop.”

Sherlock nods, and rubs his thumbs inside John’s knees again.

“And you can stop, too, okay.Any time.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock doesn’t waste another second.He strokes his hands up the full length of John’s thighs until his middle fingers meet John’s pelvis, and then strokes back down again.John is looking at his hands, and that’s fine.It’s easier.Sherlock understands.Some things are too intimate, too intense for eye contact.

He does it again, and watches John’s lips part, and when he reaches the top of John’s thighs the fourth time, he sweeps his thumbs in a crescent along the soft skin between them, and watches a slight bulge begin to form beneath the cotton of John’s pants.

He is shocked at the surge of desire that races through him, the way it prickles over his skin like an impending summer storm, an almost irresistible urge to surge forward, to press his face there, breathe deep, breathe him in, take him in, taste.Sherlock sucks in a stuttering breath.

“You okay?”John whispers.

Sherlock nods.“You?”

“God, yeah.”

There’s something in the way John says it, voice rough and breathless, that washes over Sherlock like fire.He squirms a little, as the heat pools, and grows.He feels himself growing hard, too, and wonders what John will think and do.

This is new territory.Before there were rules.Before they would stop if this happened, regroup, let their blood cool.Sherlock is surprised at how affected he is, how his lust seems to feed off of John’s, and John’s off of his, a surging, heated ouroboros of desire.

John is staring at Sherlock’s pants, mouth parted, eyelids heavy, breathing shallow and quick.The front of John’s pants is tenting outward now, his erection full, and twitching.Sherlock’s mouth waters, even as his body floods with longing and anxiety in equal measure.

What would John do if Sherlock were to give in to the demands of his body, surge forward, nuzzle, palm, mouth, lick, swallow him down?He feels his cock fill at the thought, feels the tip bloom with wetness.John inhales in a ragged breath, and still Sherlock is stroking his thighs, firm and rhythmic.

“Jesus…”John whispers it like a benediction.He sounds awed and overcome all at once.“God.”

John’s eyes slide shut, his head falls back, his cock throbs in his pants, and Sherlock thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.He’s hungry, and slightly terrified, and he doesn’t want to stop.He doesn’t want to stop.

“You—you’re…”But it’s getting harder to make words now.John is— _everything_.The scent, the sight, the sound of him floods all of Sherlock’s senses at once, heady and intoxicating.And how on earth does one put that into words.

“Yeah?” 

Sherlock’s hands reach the top of John’s thighs again, and John’s mouth drops open, his hips roll, and he lets out a small, breathy grunt, like he’s had the wind unexpectedly knocked out of him.Sherlock watches fascinated, as a small, damp spot forms on the cotton of his pants.

“God, I’m…I think I’m gonna…Oh Christ.”

Sherlock shifts his hands a little on the next upward stroke, curls his fingers around John’s hips, presses the pads of his thumbs against John’s hipbones, gasps when John pushes into his touch.He massages and John’s cock leaps at the touch.

“God, Sherlock.”

It’s like staring into the sun.John is radiant, beautiful.It’s painful to look at for too long.Sherlock screws his eyes shut, and focusses on what he’s doing, on the sensation of John’s body beginning to rock atop his thighs.It occurs to him that perhaps he should help, perhaps he should touch—elsewhere.But it’s so—much.

“John.”It comes out sounding strange, not the way Sherlock had expected.He feels John instantly still.

“You okay?”

John’s body is warm.A lovely weight on his body.But he feels hollow, empty, like it’s not enough, like he wants to gather John up, gather him close, like he wants to be surrounded and filled.

“Hey…”John’s voice is a whisper, a small, square palm presses to his forehead, pushes his hair back.“Tell me what you need.”

Sherlock’s fingers stir against John’s hips, curl, pull gently.“Closer.”

John shifts atop him, leans down a little.“Like this?”

“Closer.Please.”And Sherlock’s fingers are scrambling up John’s ribs, around his back, pulling him down into his arms until he can breathe again.He sucks in a deep breath and squeezes, and feels John mould against his body, erection still full, pressed against Sherlock’s belly.

Sherlock wants to pull him under his skin, tuck him up under his heart.Keep him.

“Better?”John murmurs against his chest.

“I—I love you.”He clamps his mouth shut.His face flares hot.His head throbs.

“Okay.”John is petting his head.“Okay.I feel it too.I know.”

Sherlock squirms beneath him, turns his face away and presses it, hot and flushed, into his pillow.

_Stupid.Stupid.Stupid!!_

His eyes bite, and he swears to himself that he will not cry, no matter how hopelessly pathetic he is, no matter how overwhelming it all may be.

“Hey…I liked it.Loved it.It was good.”John is lying atop him, elbow of his good arm propped on the mattress, his other hand stroking the hair away from Sherlock’s forehead, his erection flagging.“Knew I wanted you.Didn’t know I wanted you as much as all this, I guess.”And when Sherlock says nothing in reply.“Yeah, I’ll just—shut up now.”

Sherlock forces his eyes open at that, forces himself to meet John’s gaze, reaches up for his face, pulls him down, presses their foreheads together, presses his lips to John’s cheek, just one side of his nose, and feels John melt.

They lie there for so long the light in the room changes.Sherlock can hear the lunchtime traffic pick up outside.He can hear Mrs. Hudson hoovering downstairs, and somewhere on the floor, either his or John’s mobile vibrating.They both ignore it.

John’s head is on his shoulder, his fingers stir lightly against Sherlock’s chest, his breath is a soft warmth against Sherlock’s shirt.The siren of a police car sounds somewhere out on the street, and Sherlock holds his breath, prays it isn’t Lestrade, and then breathes a sigh of relief again when it passes.

He splays a hand across John’s back.“You will have to forgive me.I’m unaccustomed to—being with someone in this way.”

John tilts his chin up, seems to take in every tiny nuance of Sherlock’s expression as he gazes back down at him.He reaches out and presses a finger between Sherlock’s eyebrows, and then grins when the furrow there only deepens with Sherlock’s confusion.John chuckles.“You were fine.You were brilliant.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm.Sorry if I got a little too enthusiastic.”

Sherlock shakes his head“No.No, it was—wonderful.”

“Yeah?”John’s smile lights up his whole face.

Sherlock feels John’s joy in his body like it’s his own.“Yes.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New tags for this chapter:** #Masturbation, #Panic Attack

John is digging through the refrigerator.“Why is there a bag of severed thumbs in the crisper?”

Sherlock strides over to glance over his shoulder.“Oh, I forgot about those.It’s an experiment.I know a woman at the morgue.”

“Right.”John sniffs, his brows disappearing into his fringe.He lets out the giggle Sherlock is swiftly coming to love and shakes his head. “Maybe shouldn’t keep them where food is, though.”

“Mmm.”Sherlock presses his nose into John’s hair, breathes deep, and John reaches back and gives his hip a squeeze.“You have anything edible in here at all?”He opens the other crisper and promptly slams it closed again.“You know what, maybe we should just go out.”

“Woo hoo!”Mrs. Hudson’s cheery greeting sounds from the stairs, and Sherlock sighs and steps away from John and the fridge, just as she pokes her head in the door of the kitchen.“Sherlock, I was going to tell y…Oh.”She catches sight of John.“I didn’t know you had a client.I’ll just show myself out.”

“No…”Sherlock drawls.

“What?”

“Not a client.”

“Oh.”She steps back into the kitchen, and John extends his hand.“Yeah.Hi.John Watson.Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Martha Hudson, dear.The landlord.”She looks over John’s shoulder at Sherlock, her eyes all curiosity.He rolls his eyes and sighs.

“You did say that a flatmate would be acceptable when I moved in.”

“Oh.”Mrs. Hudson’s eyes return to John, and assess him with new appreciation.“Oh, how nice.Well, do make yourself right at home.There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing…”

“I think we’ve got it all well managed.Thanks.”John smiles.Mrs. Hudson is clearly charmed, but Sherlock thinks he knows John well enough by now to tell that the smile is forced.He wants her out of their hair almost as much as Sherlock does, and Sherlock thinks there is no way he could possibly love John more.

“Yes, yes, if we’re all done chatting, then…”

“Do you want me to bring you up some nibbles?”

“Please leave.”Sherlock insists.

“We were just talking about going out, actually.”John explains a little more diplomatically.“But thanks.”

“Oh, alright.I’ll leave you two alone.”Mrs. Hudson winks at him and Sherlock sighs loudly.

Sherlock turns and pretends to busy himself with something at the sink, listening as Mrs. Hudson descends the stairs.After a moment or two, John slides up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist.“So, you want to go out?”

“If you’re hungry.I know a place.We can walk there.”

“Yeah?”John’s nose presses into the back of his shoulder.“Am a bit.You should eat too.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally in response.

“It’s between lunch and tea.We shouldn’t have to wait if we leave now.Let me just get my coat."

* * *

 

They walk the block to the restaurant in companionable silence.John walks close, his hand occasionally brushing against Sherlock’s, making Sherlock’s fingers twitch and itch to reach out and take John’s hand in his.But it’s all still so new yet, and he doesn’t want to presume.He restrains himself.

Angelo is his usual enthusiastic self when they arrive at the small, dimly lit Italian restaurant.They are one of only a small handful of customers, and Sherlock is glad.He asks for a window seat, and tries to position himself in such a way that the light catches him to best advantage.

Angelo brings them a bottle of wine, and a small candle for the table. 

John seems relaxed, and happy.

Sherlock is unaccustomed to this sort of thing going so well.A few weeks ago he hadn’t even known the man across from him existed.Now John is going to move in.John wants to share his bed.And John is still so much of a wonderful, near miraculous mystery that Sherlock feels very fortunate, indeed.

It’s delicious.

“Hungry?”Sherlock asks as John pours over the menu.Angelo’s prices are reasonable, but he figures that he should be clear about the arrangement.“Order whatever you like.It’s on the house.I helped Angelo get off a murder charge, so…”

John looks impressed, and Sherlock feels rather pleased with himself.

John orders a hearty helping of pasta when their waiter returns with bread.Sherlock opts for slightly lighter fare.Chicken scaloppini and a caprese salad.He mostly watches John eat, mesmerised by the way he licks the tomato sauce and olive oil from his lips, leaving them glistening and stained slightly orange at the corners. Sherlock wonders what it might be like to taste the food from John’s lips.

“You okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up and away from John’s mouth.“Yes.Simply not hungry.”

“You want me to take the rest to go?”

“No, no.You’re fine.Carry on.”

John tucks back in.

Sherlock supposes he should be concerned with this growing hunger.He gets like this.He can almost hear his brother’s accusatory tone: _“You don’t fall in love with people, Sherlock.You don’t feel things that way.It’s not love.It’s some sort of obsession.”_

And he is.He is obsessed with John Watson.But he likes to think that he is capable of something beyond that, too.Romantic love has never held any fascination for him.But people—people are endlessly fascinating—when they’re not being boring.John Watson is anything but boring. 

And then there is lust.A curiosity.Something he is unaccustomed to feeling, but which he is very much feeling right now.Here in the middle of a half-empty restaurant, watching John Watson eat penne in marinara, his body is awash in a potent mix of chemicals and hormones, skin flushed, breath quickening, mouth watering, loins stirring.Fascinating.He wonders if he ponders it long enough if he can discover what the formula is, what special combination of traits and qualities has combined in John to make him so irresistible. 

It is the feelings, whatever they are, that are accompanying his obsession du jour, that seem to be stirring his body in ways it normally never does.When he looks at John he feels a softness, an opening, a desire, a longing, a need to give rather than take, a draw to protect, a desire to nurture, and coddle and indulge.He doesn’t understand it. 

He’s reminded, momentarily, of Redbeard.The last living creature he supposes he could say he had loved.He had wished on that day when his best and only friend had darted across the road after that rabbit, and been struck down by a passing lorrie, that it had been him lying there eviscerated, in a pool of his own blood, panting and yelping out his last breaths. 

In a way it had been.He had felt the pain as though it was his own.And something had died inside him then, too.He had realised, in that moment, what a horrifying, and unbearable risk it was to love something mortal, and had sworn to never do it again.

And yet…

Outside on the street a car backfires.The table shudders beneath Sherlock’s palms, wine sloshing from their glasses onto the white tablecloth, candle guttering, and there is John, on his feet, leaning half across the table, back hunched and left hand extended toward Sherlock’s chest as though to shield him from some phantom danger. 

Sherlock’s breath catches.

_Not alone._

Sherlock sees the moment John catches himself.His face flushes and then blanches.

People at the tables around them are staring. 

John’s hands are shaking.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I…Yeah.Sorry.Excuse me.”John slides away from the table and marches back toward the loo, head down, hands balled into fists at his side, and with a slight hitch to his gait.

Sherlock has their waiter package up their food, and waits, and waits.After fifteen minutes have passed he gets up and wanders back to the loo.He taps on the door, once.

“Out in a minute!” 

John’s voice doesn’t sound right.

“John, it’s me.”

This declaration is met with nothing but silence.

Sherlock leans against the wall opposite and stares at the locked door.

“I’ve had them pack up the rest of our food.We can go home whenever you’re ready.”

Still nothing.

Sherlock takes a step forward and presses his hand against the door.“John.Let’s go home.”

He hears the lock on the door click, but it doesn’t open.

Reaching down, he slowly turns the handle and steps inside.

John is on the floor, sitting with his back pressed against the wall, and his knees tucked up against his chest.He’s shaking.He’s pale.His breath is coming too quick and too shallow.

Sherlock reaches back and locks the door behind him, and then sits down beside John, tries not to think about how many hours the restaurant has been open, how many people have likely used the loo since, then, just exactly what it is they may be sitting in.None of that matters.John needs him.

He lets his shoulder press against John’s.He waits.John sucks in a great gasping breath, shudders and lets it out with a whimper that seems to twist deep into the centre of Sherlock’s chest, making it hard to breathe himself, making him ache to pull John into his arms, against his chest, to wait there, on the cold, tile floor of the loo until their heartbeats and breath synchronise. 

“May I try something?”

“Noth—nothing helps.”

“Alright.”

And so they continue to sit.Someone knocks on the door, and Sherlock bellows at them that it’s occupied.

“I—I’m fine.”John says after a very long while.

“Should we go home?”

“I should go.I should go back to my flat.I have a client at 7:00.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.Sorry.I—I really need to dash.”John scrambles to his feet, and heads for the door.He doesn’t look back, but he stops with his hand on the handle.“I’ll text you in the morning.”

There is a man leaning up against the wall outside the door.Waiting to use the loo, no doubt.He scowls when John opens the door, and John starts a little at the sight of him, pauses, and then walks away.The man frowns even more deeply when he takes in the sight of Sherlock sitting on the floor of the toilet.“Jesus.This is a place of business, for Christ sake.”

Sherlock gets up, dusts off his jacket and the seat of his trousers, and takes the man in, in one long sweep.Typical.“Which is what I’m sure your wife would have said if she could have seen you and your secretary in your office just before you came here for lunch.Pot, kettle, black, wouldn’t you say?”

He ignores the man’s stunned expression and pushes past him, rushing outside in an attempt to catch up with John, but he’s nowhere in sight.

* * *

 

“Broken things, Sherlock.”

His brother is the last person he wants to see in his mind palace.There are things he needs to think about—important things.His brother’s unwanted opinions are not one of them.

“Everything is broken in some way.I fail to see your point.”

“Oh, but I think you do.”

“No.”

He leaves his brother behind, goes deeperHe knows what (or rather who) he is looking for long before he opens the door and comes face-to-face with him.John Watson is sitting on the futon in his flat, legs crossed beneath him.He is wearing shorts and a white t-shirt.His hands are shaking.His face is pale. 

Sherlock walks over and stares down at him.He feels his heart clench the way it had in the restaurant earlier. 

_Broken things._

But John is so much more than just that.Sherlock remembers the way John held him, the careful way he conducted their first interview, the way he intuited Sherlock’s particular neurology, his unique needs and desires.John is clever, so much more clever than his outward looks bely.He’s built his masks well.Sherlock admires it, even as he sees through it.

He sits down on the futon and takes John in.The injured shoulder.He all but ignores it, unless it is directly touched.It does cause him at least some discomfort all the time, pain even, but he doesn’t appear to mind.It’s something he’s almost pushed to the back of his mind.The circumstances surrounding the injury are likely also something he would rather forget.And there is guilt attached, because he also favours his leg at times, something else he seems to work hard to hide, but isn’t as successful at.And that injury, if there even was one, is much older.Possibly also traumatic, but not the same sort of guilt attached.The slight hitch in his step appears when John is feeling lost and vulnerable.

Sherlock remembers touching John’s thighs, long, slow, tantalising strokes.Touch which John allowed.But now John is not here.John is at home.Alone.Perhaps he was embarrassed by the panic attack at the restaurant.Perhaps.But Sherlock thinks that there’s more to it than that.And that is why he is here.

“Hello, John.”

“Hey.”John smiles up at him.His hair lies soft against his forehead.He rakes his fingers through it and leans against the back of the futon.“You gonna join me?”

“If you like.”

“I do.”

“Alright.” 

Sherlock sits down, close enough to feel the warm press of John’s injured shoulder against his.The place where their shoulders touch, burns like fire.

“Does it always hurt?”

He sees John turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye.“What?”

“The places where it hurts.Is the pain always there?”

He turns to look at John, then, straight into the dark depths of his storm blue eyes, in ways John would never permit in reality.John doesn’t like it, Sherlock has learned.He doesn’t like prolonged, intense eye contact.It’s interesting.Unfortunate, too, as Sherlock finds it almost addictive.But that is something to consider another evening.Right now, though…

John has no answer for him.

“Would you let me see you naked?”

John’s eyes snap to his.His brows dance with confusion before he lets out a breathy giggle.Sherlock smiles.“Is that a yes?”

“Okay.”John licks his lips.

“May I undress you?”

John nods.

“Come here, then.”

John turns to face him, and Sherlock reaches out and starts to unbutton his shirt.He does it quickly, clinically.This isn’t meant to be—amorous.This isn’t a fantasy.This is research.

Sherlock has to piece together how John’s body might look based on what he’s already seen and observed of him clothed.Small oval nipples, the shoulder wound, with the point of entry being at the front of the shoulder, and the exit at the back (it’s possible he was looking at whoever shot him).Muscle tone visible beneath a fleshy chest and belly.Strong shoulders and upper back.

Sherlock tosses the shirt on the floor, and reaches down for John’s belt, unbuckles it, and then uses both ends to slowly drag John closer.He watches John’s reaction.A flicker of something in the eyes.Possibly fear, but it’s laced through with something else.Sherlock lets go of his belt, and strokes his hands down the length of John’s bare arms.

“Get out of them for me.”

John does.He strips all the way down to his pants, and then pauses, looking at Sherlock, waiting for orders.

Not yet.

Still too many unknowns.

“Come here.”

John does.He crawls onto Sherlock’s lap, facing him.He settles.

Real John would never do this.Sherlock knows that.And that knowing is informative in and of itself.

But this John is doing it.And now he is reaching up to toy with Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock feels warmly anchored by the sensation.The soft movement of John’s fingers in his hair, the comforting weight of his arse against Sherlock’s thighs, the way all the colour has returned to John’s cheeks, making him look happy, and healthy, and awash with desire, all of these things flood Sherlock’s senses, almost overwhelming him.

The sound of his own, low moan snaps him out of his mind palace.He’s at Baker Street.He’s on the sofa on the lounge.He glares down the length of his body.He’s sporting a rather unmissable erection.Inconvenient.

He sighs, and reaches behind his head for a throw cushion, plopping it over his groin, just in case Mrs. Hudson decides to make an impromptu visit.His cock throbs against the weight of the pillow, and he wonders if he should just take himself in hand and be done with it.It’s not as though he has anything else to do.John is even now across town, servicing another client, quite pre-occupied, and Sherlock would rather not think about it.John said he would text in the morning.Sherlock needs to accept that.It won’t do to look too desperate so early on.

_You already asked him to move in, you idiot.How much more desperate can you look?!_

Sherlock sighs, raises an ear to listen for Mrs. Hudson.Her television is on.She usually watches something light this time of the evening, while indulging in the marijuana habit she likes to characterise as medicinal.She won’t be up until much later, if at all.

Sherlock folds his hands atop the pillow, the extra weight feels good.It’s been ages since he’s done this, and usually when he does it’s quick, efficient, and coloured with the irritation he feels at having to address it at all.But tonight is different.He considers taking his time with it. 

John has said he would perhaps like more.Sherlock thinks he should be prepared to oblige, should the opportunity present itself.It wouldn’t hurt to practice, to remind himself how a man’s body responds to touch, and if it helps him become more familiar with the things that bring him pleasure, too, then so much the better. 

Yes.He will.He’ll do it for the data.

Since it is for data’s sake, he wonders if he should be somewhat methodical about it.Stopping to take notes seems a step too far, but pausing now and again to make mental notes, seems acceptable.Even advisable.

Yes.Alright then.

He reaches down and inches his fingers between the throw pillow and his body, drags his palm slowly over the bulge beneath his pyjama bottoms.It feels good.Not anything like what he feels when he is with John, but unmistakably pleasurable.

This is the time when he would normally fish out the nearly expired bottle of lube from his nightstand drawer and make quick work of the thing, but no, he should slow down, he should think about it.What might John like?How might he like to be touched?

He seemed responsive to Sherlock’s hands on his thighs earlier.Sherlock reaches down and strokes his hands along his thighs, tracing his thumbs along the inside.It’s pleasant, but not arousing.Interesting.

Different bodies respond to different sorts of touch.Logical.But also, curious.He wonders, momentarily, if there is a psychological element to it—childhood impressions, influences and role models all combining to inform your pleasure triggers.

He lifts his hands back up to rest on his belly.John is unlike anyone he’s ever felt attraction to.True, he feels this sort of attraction rarely, but even the boyish crushes he had entertained for celebrities or fictional characters, though sometimes soldiers, or men of a brave and steadfast nature, had looked nothing like John.John is a surprise.A thrilling, fascinating surprise.

He lets his eyes slide shut.

“There you are.Wondered where you’d gone.”

John is sitting on the futon, still in his pants and nothing else.His nipples are peaked with the chill, his skin blooming in goose flesh.

“You’re cold.”

“A bit.Yeah.Maybe you should come warm me up.”John winks, and Sherlock warms.

“Yes, I think so.”He sits back down and pulls John back into his lap. 

John straddles him eagerly, braces himself against the wall behind them, arms either side of Sherlock’s head, and grins.“Mm, warm.”

“Very,” Sherlock murmurs, and lets out a long, deep sigh as John wiggles his arse and settles fully onto Sherlock’s lap.

“Might kiss you,” the John in his mind suggests.

“And I would let you, I imagine, but not here.Let’s save that for when we’re actually together.”

“Suit yourself.”John shrugs, and leans in to press his face into Sherlock’s neck.“Might kiss you here though.” 

Sherlock can feel the whisper of John’s lips against his skin.He shivers.

“Mmm…Might just do…”A warm, wet press of lips, slide of tongue.Sherlock’s breath catches, and a surge of arousal bursts in his abdomen, spreads outwards, downwards.

“I—I wouldn’t be averse.”

“Right,” John whispers just behind his earlobe.John hums with pleasure, nuzzles behind his ear, kisses the side of his neck.“Christ you’re gorgeous.”

“Yes, I know.”

John chuckles and rolls his hips.“Arrogant sod.”He’s breathless. 

Sherlock looks down, and his mouth waters at the sight of John’s erection, full and twitching, straining at the thin cotton of his pants.Suddenly he wants to see. 

Reaching down, he takes John by the hips, slides him back a little and then hooks his thumbs under the waistband of John’s pants.He hesitates, looks up.John is grinning, saucily.“Go on then.”

He does.It’s a bit of a blur.Not enough data.He looks back up at John’s face, something he does have memorised, and then reaches down and takes himself out as well. 

John’s eyes drop, and then return to his with a smirk.He licks his lips.“You wanna?”

Sherlock nods.

“Yeah?Well, go ahead then.”John slides back in close and Sherlock feels the whisper of John’s cock against his.

_Oh._

“Those nice big hands.Think you can manage us both?”

“Mmm.”Sherlock has to bite back a moan as he wraps his hand around himself ( _around them both_ ).“Seems so.”

“Well done.”John’s voice is playful, but it catches in the end.He rolls his hips.“God yeah…Christ that’s good.”

This is when Sherlock should really be taking in data, the way John’s nipples peak, the way his mouth drops open, the smirk, the crinkles around his eyes, the eager, enthusiastic way he thrusts into Sherlock’s hand.What sounds does he make?How does he smell?How…?Huhhh…

Sherlock’s eyes snap open.Too dry.He should have gone to bed, got the lube.He scrambles to his feet, somehow makes it to his room, slams the door behind him, and yanks the drawer of his nightstand onto the floor in a frantic search for the small bottle he keeps there.

He strips.Tears back the covers, lies down, and moans with relief when he closes his warm, now slick hand around himself again.He lets his head fall back against the pillow with relief, lets his eyes slide shut, and there is John again, waiting for him, cheeks flushed, straddling him on the bed, thrusting into Sherlock’s hand, his thick cock sliding along side Sherlock’s, over Sherlock’s palm, and he’s making the most beautiful sounds.

Sherlock moans John’s name aloud, and is shocked at how the sound of his own voice, rough and wrecked with pleasure, seems to stoke the flames of desire even higher.

John smiles down at him.“Gorgeous.”

Sherlock pants, and speeds up the rhythm of his strokes.

“Fantastic.” John pants. 

Sherlock moans.

“P—Perfect,” John grunts.

“ _John._ ”

“There you go…Almost there.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about the ache building in his chest, along with the tension building in his body.Tries not to think about all the things he feels when he looks at John, thinks of John, hears his voice, feels the touch of his hand, the whisper of his breath, sees the look in his eyes, so fond, so genuine, so full of…

It grips him suddenly, and with surprising force, a burst of pleasure so intense it makes his toes curl, and his back arch, and a sound escape his throat that would be embarrassing if anyone had been present.It whites his brain, wipes it clean, nothing but the explosive pleasure of the moment, the flood of chemicals coursing through his body, the strange, vulnerable feeling of his cock pulsing in his fist as he spends all over his belly and chest.

He lets it take him, and then sinks under the blissful weight of the afterglow, lying still, softening cock still in hand, the distant natter of Mrs. Hudson’s telly letting him know that she’s still deep in the grip of her usual evening pastime, and he can lie like this for hours if he chooses.

He tries not to think about John, across the city, in the arms of another.He tries not to think about what he’s just done.

Was it a step too far?

What would John think if he knew?Would he be flattered?Disgusted?

Should Sherlock have asked permission first?

As the first flush of afterglow begins to wane, he only fees sad.He rolls onto his side, and pulls a pillow against his chest, thinks about how it’s a pity his flat is clean, how he would do anything for a hit at the moment, tries not to think of how much John would disapprove and fails.

He sighs.

Perhaps his brother was right after all.

He’s managed to get himself in quite the fix, and when all is said and done he’s not sure he’s up to the challenge.Perhaps such things are not meant for men like him.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock is wakened by the buzzing of his mobile on his nightstand.He blinks into the cotton of his pillow, wonders at the heavy weight of his limbs, the cool comfort of the sheets draped over his back, wonders just how long he’s been sleeping.

Dragging his hand out from under the covers, he fumbles around blearily, until his hand closes over his phone.

9:30 am

A single text from John: 

> **Hey**

His brain finally comes awake.He’s in bed.He’s naked.Last night he’d…He slept the whole night through.His cheeks heat.He screws his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and chastises himself for an idiot.  
****

In the light of day he thinks more clearly.It was simply an experiment.It was important for the gathering of data.John could hardly hold that against him if it came in handy later, and there is no need for him to get emotional about any of it at all.His feelings the night before were likely due to some sort of post-coital drop.Hormones.Brain chemicals.All very logical.

Yes.Good.Best to get on with things, then…

He lifts the phone from his chest and replies 

> Good-morning, John.

There is no response.

Sherlock gets up, stretches and strolls into the loo, turns the water on in the shower and stares at himself in the mirror.With the exception of his hair, which is a mess, he looks good, well-rested.Perhaps he’ll go out later.Perhaps he can persuade John to join him.

He stares down at the phone again.Still no response.He sets it on the edge of the sink, and gets into the shower. 

When he gets out there is a new text. 

> **Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday.I don’t do**
> 
> **so well with that sort of thing.Hasn’t happened**
> 
> **in front of somebody for a long time.Didn’t**
> 
> **want you to think that you did wrong.**

Sherlock rubs a thumb over the words, and then taps out a reply.  
 

> You’re fine.
> 
> I have an appointment at the Met today.I would like you
> 
> to come with me.

Sherlock watches the three dots pulsing as John types his reply.  
 

> **The Met?You mean the Metropolitan Police?**
> 
>  
> 
> Yes.If you’re going to be my partner, then you had  
>  ****
> 
> best become familiar with the work, including those
> 
> I consult for.
> 
>  
> 
> **Right.Right, okay.**
> 
> **You want me to meet you there?**  
>  ****
> 
>  
> 
> No.Come around to the flat first.I’ve only just  
>  ****
> 
> woken up.
> 
>  
> 
> **Okay.See you in a bit.**

Sherlock smiles, and hurries to finish his morning rituals before John arrives.Best foot forward, and all that.Thus far John has mostly seen him vulnerable, high, or ill.He thinks he wouldn’t mind getting a little of his footing back.  
****

It’s gratifying to see the effect his extra attention to grooming has.John’s eyes rake the length of his body when he arrives, pausing on the waistband of his trousers, the straining buttons of his shirt, the long line of his neck, his mouth.

“How was traffic?”

John’s eyes snap up to his.“Mm?Oh.No.Yeah, it was…”He sucks in a sharp breath.“Fine.”

“Good.Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.Good.Yeah.Coffee would be good.”

Sherlock turns toward the cabinets to get a mug, and smiles.

“You okay?”John asks, apropos of nothing.

“Well.And you?”

“Good.Yeah.” 

Sherlock hears the scrape of chair legs against wood, hears John settle into a chair behind him.“Listen, I umm…I’ve been doing some thinking, and…”

Sherlock turns and lifts the cup of coffee he’s just poured.“Just cream?”

John’s eyes do something he can’t interpret.“Yeah.Yeah, just cream.How did you know?”

Sherlock smiles.“It’s what I do.” 

He heads to the fridge for the cream.“You were saying?”

“Oh.Yeah, I…You know what, it’s nothing.It’s fine.So, what are we going to the Met about?”

“I have to talk to a D.I. there about my case.”

“Irena’s case?”

“Yes.Will it bother you?”

He sees John consider it.“Might bother her a bit.”

“Doubtful.She seems to trust you, and she’s chosen to trust me as well.It’s a trust I don’t intend to break, no matter what my brother might have to say on the matter.”Sherlock walks over to the table and hands John his cup of coffee.

“Your brother?”John cups the mug in his hands.“You have a brother?”

“Mm.Unfortunately yes.”

John grins briefly, and then looks down and blows on his coffee, before taking a tentative sip.“He a bit of a handful, then?”

Sherlock graces John with a brief smile in return.“You have no idea.”

John huffs.“What’s he got to do with it, then?He with the Met too?”

“No.The government.In a way.”

“Government?”

Sherlock sighs.“He  _is_  the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.”

John’s eyebrows disappear into his fringe and he grins.“Right.Okay.So he wants you to drop the case?Why?”

“Because he’s being boring.”Sherlock claps his hands together.“So, should we be off, then?”

John stares down at the cup of coffee in his hand, the one he’s barely touched, and then shrugs, sets it down on the table, and gets to his feet.

“Ready when you are.”

* * *

 

“Hey Holmes, that the date?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and keeps on walking, trying not to think about what John must be thinking a few steps behind him, as a chorus of whoops and whistles surround them. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

It was clearly a bad idea coming to the Met, but then they had to come eventually, didn’t they?Was it better to get it out of the way, or wait until things with John felt more—solid?Hard to say. 

But, he’d made the call, and now here they are and…

“You got news for me?”Lestrade is leaning against the door jamb to his office, paper cup of coffee in hand.Sherlock can see him taking in the sight of John a couple of steps behind him.Sherlock pushes past him, into the relative shelter of the office, and hopes that John is following.

“And you are?”He hears Greg say behind him. 

Sherlock sighs and lets his eyes slide shut.“He’s with me.”

“Can see that.Greg Lestrade.”

“John Watson.I’m his…”John hesitates, clearly uncertain as to how he should present their relationship.

“Right.Well, come in then.”

John settles into the chair beside Sherlock, and Sherlock can’t bring himself to look at him as Lestrade slides into his desk chair, across from them and grins, all the while looking back and forth between the two of them in a knowing way Sherlock isn’t exactly sure he likes.

Sherlock scowls.“John is my colleague.”

“Right.Yeah.So, you two are here to what?Give me an update?”

“An update on what?”

Lestrade shrugs.“I don’t know.You tell me.Thought this Adler woman was in some sort of danger.”

“And you are clearly in my brother’s back pocket, so don’t pretend you don’t know he’s warned me off the case.”

“Oi!”Lestrade cocks a brow in warning.

Sherlock pouts.He feels totally wrong-footed.His intention had been to impress John with hisinfluence at the Met, with the way Lestrade hangs on his every word out of necessity, with the way Sherlock constantly one-ups idiots like Anderson, and instead, here he is feeling every bit the bumbling teenager who’s just brought a boy home to dad.

Lestrade tips his coffee cup in Sherlock’s direction.“I’m not in anyone’s back pocket.”It’s firm, but good natured enough.

Sherlock says nothing, and Lestrade takes a sip from the cup before turning his attention back to John.“You know, I shouldn’t really be letting you in on this.Could get in enough trouble letting him on the case, but you…”

“John is a medical doctor and a soldier.He’s exceedingly skilled, and unfailingly discreet.You have nothing to worry about.”

Greg cocks an eyebrow.“That so.”

“It is.”John confirms.

“There.So you see, you can stop being boring.”

Lestrade huffs into his cup.“Who’s being boring?You got news for me, or no?”

“No.”

Greg grins.“So you just came down here to introduce me to John?”

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat.“Listen, I really don’t have to be here, if it’s…”

“Don’t be stupid.”“You’re fine.”Sherlock and Lestrade say over one another.

Greg chuckles.“I’m just giving him a hard time.You’re fine.”

“Oh yeah?Right, well, I’ll help where I can.”

“If you can help keep this one from running off with every flash of genius, and leaving us all in the dark, I’ll be in your debt.”Lestrade fishes a donut out of the box in front of him and then hands the box across the desk to John, who takes one, and then leans back in his chair.

“You catch the Tottenham match last night?”Greg asks around a mouthful of donut.

“No.Was against Brighton, yeah?How’d they do?”

Sherlock hates the easy way John and Lestrade seem to find an instant rapport, when it took Sherlock months to be sure where he stood with the man, and even now, almost two years on, he still finds himself sometimes wondering.

“Yes, well, if you two are quite finished.”Sherlock gets to his feet and tries to ignore the way that both John and Lestrade stare at him like he’s just grown a second head.

“Oh.We off then?”

“Yes.Come along, John.”

Sherlock strides out of the office without waiting for a response, and feels somewhat gratified when he feels John fall into stride behind him.

“Sherlock!”Greg calls after them.

“Text me!”Sherlock calls back.

“What about the Adler business?”

“Ask my brother!”

And then they are in the lift, and Sherlock can breathe again.

“What the hell was that about?”John doesn’t look angry, not exactly.More confused than anything else.

“Nothing.”

“What about the case?”

“What about it?”Sherlock sounds short and petulant, even to his own ears, but he can’t seem to help himself, and he feels small, and stupid, and wholly overwhelmed at how badly it all went, and all he can think about is getting out, away, some place where he can just be quiet, and not have to think about any of it.

“Thought Irena needed us.Thought that’s what we came here for in the first place, but it was all just what?A social visit?”

“Is there a reason you’re still talking?”

He sees John reel back a little at the harshness of his tone and words.He hadn’t meant for it to come out sound quite so…But he’s reached the point of no return, the point where he’s going to become utterly monstrous if can’t have some peace and quiet.

“Yeah, you know what.That’s me done.I’ll catch a cab back to my flat.You have fun with whatever game it is you’re playing at.”

He watches John turn on his heel, and walk a short way down the sidewalk, hand raised for a cab, sees a cab slow and merge into the lane closest to the kerb.

“John!”

John hesitates with his hand on the door to the cab.Waiting, Sherlock supposes, for him to say something as he hurries down the sidewalk toward him.But Sherlock has no words.All he knows is that he doesn’t want John to leave.

He’d awoken that morning with high hopes, with plans, plans to woo John, to draw him more deeply into the fold, but now here he is, blundering and destroying all his own best laid plans, once again, and it’s too important!John is too important to him, to ruin it all now.

He opens his mouth, tries to say all these things, and is met only with impotent silence.It’s galling.It’s frustrating in the extreme.John is going to walk away.He’s going to leave.AGAIN.And it’s all because Sherlock is such an utterly hopeless mess, a horrifying facsimile and excuse for a human being, and John has every right, every right to…

John’s face does something Sherlock can’t interpret, and then he is opening the cab door, ducking inside, and Sherlock’s heart plummets.

He stops, halfway in.“You coming?”

And John must see the confusion written all over Sherlock’s face, because he steps back out of the cab again, snaps briefly at the cabbie, who’s trying to hurry him, and jerks his chin toward the interior of the cab.“You coming?”He repeats.

Sherlock goes.

He crawls in after John and listens to him banter back and forth with the cabbie in a language Sherlock thinks is Pashto, until the man turns off the radio, leaving them in silence.He listens to John tell the cabbie to go to Baker Street.He sits in grateful silence.He starts a little as one of John’s fingers hooks with his on the seat between them.

He looks down at their joined fingers and has to fight the bite he feels in the corners of his eyes.

When they get to the flat, John pays for the cab, and then takes the key from Sherlock’s outstretched palm, unlocks the front door, and leads them upstairs.

The flat is quiet.Mrs. Hudson must be out.All Sherlock can hear is the soft hum of afternoon traffic outside, the occasional clatter of dishes in the cafe below, and the tick of the clock on the wall in the kitchen.

John goes into the kitchen, and starts to make tea, and Sherlock drops into his chair, curls onto his side, and watches him.John returns when the tea is made, two cups, one in each hand.He sets one down on the table beside Sherlock’s chair, and the other on the table beside the other, and sits.

He looks.Sherlock looks back.

“Can I talk?”

Sherlock nods.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nods again.

“But you weren’t—back there?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

John nods, his eyes dropping to his knees.He picks at the seam on the inner thigh of his trousers.“So, you work with that Lestrade bloke?”

Sherlock nods again.

“You take me there just to show me off?”John is smiling.He doesn’t look angry.He doesn’t look the way Sherlock expected him to.He looks…He looks fond, and maybe a little pleased.

“I wanted them to know you,” he somehow manages.

“Yeah?”

“That you’re with me.”

John’s mouth curls up softly.He stares down at his hands.

“That you’re important.”Sherlock clarifies.“Important to the work.Important to…”He swallows down the unexpected lump in his throat.“Important to me."

“Am I?”

“Of course.”

“So what happened—back there?”

Sherlock curls a little more tightly in his chair.“It didn’t go the way I’d envisioned it.”

John nods like maybe he understands.“You don’t need to impress me, you know.I’m already impressed.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to John’s even as he feels his cheeks heat.“Are you?”

“‘Course I am.”

“Why?”

John shrugs.“Well you’re you, aren’t you.”Like somehow that answers it, but Sherlock doesn’t understand it at all.He can only stare as John continues to pick at the seam of his trousers.

John takes a deep breath.“Listen, about last night at dinner.”

Sherlock sits up.Best to appear attentive.

John’s eyes snap up to him at the sudden movement, and then drop to his lap again.“I shouldn’t have just walked out on you like that.I just—I try to avoid that happening, and—well, it’s embarrassing actually.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

John looks up at him, and then away, and continues.“I went home last night, and thought about everything, about you wanting me to come and live here, about us sharing a bed.I thought about all the things that could go wrong, all the ways I could potentially hurt you.I decided…”John sniffs and swallows dryly, before continuing.“I decided to tell you I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Sherlock sucks in a quick breath of shock before he can stop himself, and John’s eyes find his.“Until you texted me this morning, until I came over here, and saw you again, and you knew how I take my coffee without me even having to tell you, and you were inviting me to run off on some adventure with you, and then—god help me, I…”

“Make a choice.”

John’s head lifts, his brow knits.

“I—I can’t do this,” Sherlock clarifies.“I can’t keep doing this.Stay or go, but it needs to be a choice.”He wonders at his own courage ( _stupidity?_ ).He wonders just what it is he thinks he’s doing.“We keep running away from one another.”

“I know.”

“I can’t anymore.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

John’s face twists in something that almost looks like pain.“I’m not good for people, Sherlock. I never intended to get in this deep with you.”

Sherlock’s stomach flips over and goes sour.“Then you’ve made your choice?”

“I’m not what you think I am.”

“And what is that?”

“Exceedingly skilled.Unfailingly discreet.”

“You’re a soldier and a doctor.Of course you are.”

“Was.”

“What?”

John’s head drops.“Was a soldier and a doctor.Now I’m—not much.”

Sherlock stares at the top of John’s head.“Do you think your profession matters to me?Do you think it has anything at all to do with who you really are?”

“You know it does.”When John looks up again, he almost looks angry.“Where would you be without your work?”

Sherlock feels caught out.Bracing himself on the arms of the chair, he lifts himself up and crosses his legs beneath himself.“Fine.I concede your point.Fine.But you _are_ exceedingly skilled and unfailingly discreet in your current profession as well, so I would say that it is an inherent character trait, rather than a vocation-specific skill.”

John is staring at him now, the corner of his mouth twitches.“You saying I’m exceedingly skilled at cuddling?”

Sherlock sits a little straighter in his chair.“Amongst other things, yes.”

John grins.“You might be a tad biased.”

“No.No.It’s a simple fact.”

“That so?”

Sherlock feels a slight twinge of—something.“Are you making fun of me?”

John’s smile disappears.“No.‘Course not.No.Just teasing.It’s flattering, I guess.I’ve always thought I was pants at that sort of thing.”

“And yet you do it professionally.”Sherlock grins with relief.

John smiles in return and then drops his gaze.“Listen, you’ve met me at a really strange time in my life.”

“Which means…?”

“Which means I’m more of a mess than usual.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that the bloke you seem so keen on might not be the bloke you end up with in the end.”

“People change, John.That’s the one thing people can be relied upon to always do.”

“I just mean that there are sides to me you don’t know.”

“And there are sides to me you don’t know.Are we required to know everything about one another just to share a flat?I believe we’ve already had this conversation, and if you will forgive me, at this point it is beginning to feel as though you are just looking for excuses to not be here.If this has all moved too fast, and you are having second thoughts, then by all means, take a step back, but I don’t enjoy games.”

John’s shifts in his seat, sits a little straighter.“I’m not playing games.”

“Then what is this?”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitches.He sniffs.And then Sherlock blinks in surprise as John’s face flushes scarlet.“Maybe I’m—anxious.Did that ever occur to you?”

It had not occurred to him.

“Anxious?”

John’s face goes even more red.“Listen, just—just forget it.”

“Tell me.”Sherlock tries, soft and careful.

John shakes his head.

“Please.” 

And Sherlock wonders at himself, why he is like this, pushing this thing, why on earth he is so invested, so ‘all in’, so quick and so early.It should be making him anxious as well, and maybe it is and he’s just not realised it yet.He’s hardly had a moment to sit back and really process everything they are becoming since everything began.It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, none of which he can really identify, and all of which seem all-encompassing and larger than life.

It may just be a crush, a new obsession, but he’s had both of those before, and none of them have ever felt like this.

“This has happened before.”Sherlock looks up as John begins to speak.“A couple of times, but I—I’ve never let myself—go there.”

John looks up, catches Sherlock’s eye and must see the confusion there.He sighs.“The other day, in bed, what we did…That’s the most I’ve ever done.With a bloke,” he clarifies.

Sherlock sits very still, forgets to breathe.“You should have told me to stop.That was the rule.”

“No.”John shakes his head.“No.I’m not saying I didn’t want it.I did.Christ, I did.It just—it surprised me, I guess.”

“What did?”

“How good it felt.How quickly I went from zero to sixty.”

“And it made you anxious?”

“In the moment?No.But afterwards, I just…”John shakes his head, stares down at his hands.“I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not…It’s fine.It’s all fine.I mean that.I don’t judge.People should love who they love.”

“People?”

John looks up, brows knit.

“And what about you?Do you count as ‘people’?”

John’s face twists in something like pain, his eyes go red.

“John, I have no expectations.We can slow down.We can decide what we want—together.I simply want to be with you.And if my—saying what I did yesterday.If that was too much, or too soon, I…”

John huffs and smiles weakly.“It was fine." 

“I liked how we began.”Sherlock uncrosses his legs, sits forward.“We could go back to that, if you like, if we’re moving too fast.It’s all new to me, too, John.I’ve never been this way with anyone, and it’s surprised me, too, the things I feel when we’re together.”

John’s eyes meet his briefly before dropping away again.he picks up his tea cup, stares into it, and then sets it down again.

“In our first interview you said you would check-in, a lot,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Yeah.”

“We should both do that.I intend to, if you’re amenable.I don’t want there to be regrets.”

John sighs, massages his thumb and forefinger over his brows.“I should know what I feel—in the moment, not afterwards.”

“But you don’t.So we pause, we take time.I would appreciate it—for me as well as you.I—I’ve gotten rather carried away, I’m afraid.Perhaps it is partially infatuation, obsession, I have been prone to such things on occasion, but this feels different, and I…All I’m asking is time, a chance to explore it—together.I won’t beg.But there it is.”

John bites at his lower lip, and flexes his left hand into a fist before releasing it again.“Last night I wanted to pack everything up, and just come back here.”He looks up and forces a smile.“Told myself it wasn’t healthy.Talked myself out of it.Talk myself out of a lot of things.”

“Why?”

John shrugs.“Don’t know.”

“You would be welcome, you know.”

“Yeah.I know.”John picks up his teacup and actually takes a sip this time.He lowers it from his lips and stares into it for a moment, before looking up again.“Can I stay?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, tonight, but also…”

“Yes.”

John smiles.It’s crooked, and his eyes look more sad than anything, but…“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

Sherlock smiles.“Most likely.”

John huffs out a laugh, and Sherlock chuckles.“I want you here, John.I wouldn’t have asked you to move in if I didn’t.The sooner you’re here, the better.”

“So now’s okay?”

“Now is perfect.”

“Don’t have any of my things.”

“You can borrow mine tonight, go get the rest tomorrow.”

“Need to give notice on my lease.”

“We can buy it out.”

“My clients.”

“They can find other men to cuddle.”

John laughs outright at that.“I think you might be a bad influence.”

“And you love it.”Sherlock winks, and then thrills at the colour that comes to John’s cheeks.

“Takeaway?”Sherlock asks after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“Are you hungry?Should we do a takeaway?”

“Oh.Yeah.Takeaway would be good.”

“Thai, Chinese, Indian?”

“Chinese.You guess what I like.Want to see if you can do the coffee thing again.”

And so Sherlock does, and gets it right.Well, mostly right.Right enough for John’s brows to disappear into his fringe, for him to grin, and murmur, ‘Fantastic!’, and make Sherlock feel warm all over.

They eat in front of the telly, and watch some ridiculous film that John insists on, and which Sherlock hardly pays attention to, because John looks relaxed, and happy, and like something has settled in him now a decision’s been made.

It’s homely, and domestic, and perfect.It’s the sort of thing Sherlock never thought he could or would enjoy, but enjoy it he does, and when John falls asleep sitting up a few hours later, and slowly slides over and comes to rest of Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock thinks he might just be the luckiest person in the world.

He thinks about Adler.He thinks about Moriarty.He thinks about his brother’s warnings.

He hopes it can last.


	10. Chapter 10

John’s hair is silk against his cheek.Sherlock’s fingers tingle with the urge to touch.And John wouldn’t mind, he thinks, were he to do just that, just to touch a little while he sleeps.

He reaches across slowly, lets his fingers tangle with the tousled strands—wavy, and a kaleidoscope of colours: gold, taupe, even a few silver.Beautiful.

He would like to kiss him, but he isn’t quite sure what John would think of that.For all they have done, they still haven’t done that, and there is an intimacy to it, Sherlock thinks, that is something more than stroking another’s knee, their thigh, more than tracing the length of their spine, or burying your fingers in their hair, or even of growing hard against their body.To share breath, to let your tongue slip between the seam of their lips, to enter them—that is something altogether different.And he thinks he knows John well enough by now, to know that it might be difficult for him.Too vulnerable perhaps?It can wait.

Outside the city has slowed to the soft hum and hush that only comes just before dawn.Normally he would fear the coming of day, fear that it would mean John getting up, going, returning to his tiny, spare flat, his clients.But not today.Today John is staying.It is clearly too soon to declare it to be _forever,_ but it’s close enough for Sherlock to relax into it.John is a man of his word, and a man led by his heart, and by his own admission his heart keeps leading him back to Baker Street, and so here he is now, pressed against Sherlock’s body, curled into the warmth of his arms.

Sherlock lets his eyes slide shut and shakes his head a little at his own ridiculousness.His brother is right about one thing.He becomes unbearably saccharine when forming this sort of attachment.It’s something he’s sought for years to avoid, and he’s done well.It hasn’t been a struggle.He rarely feels things this way.But John—well, John has been an exception in so many ways.

“Hey.”

Sherlock opens his eyes.John is staring up at him, mussy and drunk with sleep.He’s smiling.He looks content, happy even.It’s not a look Sherlock often sees focussed on him—from anyone.

“Hello.”

John’s smile stretches a little wider.“Guess I fell asleep.”

“Mmm, long before James pushed the improbably named doctor to his watery grave.”

John grins, and then screws his eyes shut, and curls in toward Sherlock’s warmth a little more.“Nice to see you made it through to the end this time.”

“Yes, well…I thought there might be a quiz afterwards.”

John huffs into his shoulder.“Don’t require you to like Bond in order to date me.”

“Is that what this is?”

John tilts his chin to blink up at him.“Yeah.Thought we sorted all that last night.”A wrinkle forms between his brows, and Sherlock reaches down to smooth it away with his finger.

“We did.But it’s helpful to know how you define it.”

John sits up, and Sherlock instantly misses him.“Well, how would you define it?”There is a tension to his voice Sherlock doesn’t understand.

“Are you angry?”

John frowns.“What?No.‘Course not, I just…I thought we were on the same page, and now I’m not so sure.”

“I’ve asked you to share a flat with me.I prefer your company to any other.I think about you constantly.I find myself quite distracted by my craving for your presence, your companionship, your touch.I have sought to make you a part of my life—wholly, completely.No one else holds my regard or affection in that way.That is how I would define it.”

John’s face does something strange.“Sounds more like a commitment.”

“It is.”Sherlock thinks it best he speak plainly.He’s already quite exhausted by their misunderstandings.

“You hardly know me.”

Sherlock sighs.“I know you well enough, and I’m growing quite bored of continually having this conversation, as I said last night.I’ve stated my feelings as plainly as I know how.Shall we move on?”

John’s lips part.“I…”Sherlock sees him process it.Sees something shift behind his eyes.“Yeah.Right.Yeah.Sorry.You’re right.It’s fine.It’s good.”He smiles, and Sherlock feels some of his building anxiety dissipate.“It’s all good.”

John stretches, his arm coming to rest on the sofa cushions behind Sherlock’s head.“What time is it?”

“I believe it’s just a little before 4:00.”

“Mmm…”John’s fingers find their way into Sherlock’s curls.“And what time does Mrs. Hudson usually wake up?”

“Not for another two hours.”

“That so…”John’s fingers are working their usual magic on his scalp.He can feel himself go to jelly.

“Yes.”

“So…There’s time for us to go to bed for a bit.”

Sherlock rolls his head in John’s direction.“Yes.”

And he must pitch his voice just right, must telegraph the requisite level of enthusiasm and desire, because John’s breath catches, and his lips part, and his eyes drop to Sherlock’s mouth, before returning to his eyes.

“Up you get, then.”

Sherlock doesn’t have to be told twice.He follows John down the hallway to his ( _their_ ) bedroom.He walks through the door, lets John shut it behind them.He waits, breathless, as John walks toward him, wraps his arms around his waist, presses against him.

John tightens his grip for a moment, and then lets go, moves his hands to Sherlock’s waist, slides them down over his hips and back up again.“What do you think?”

And Sherlock is totally thrown, isn’t quite sure what he’s asking, so he only shakes his head in confusion.John smiles, and then presses his forehead to the centre of Sherlock’s chest before huffing softly and looking up again.“Asking what you want?”

 _Oh_ , Sherlock mouths, silently.“Anything.Everything.Whatever you want to give.”Because Sherlock sees now.His expression of commitment has somehow made this easier for John.John initiating has made it easier. 

He’s in for a treat.

“You know what I’d like?”

Sherlock shakes his head at the great mystery that is John.

“Think I’d like to see you.Would that be okay?Can I undress you?”

Sherlock nods.He wants to tell him he would be willing to be laid bare, in all the ways a man can be, under John’s fond gaze and capable hands, but he only nods.

John nods back, his hands sliding up Sherlock’s back, and down, hesitating at his waist, thumbs tracing crescents over his hipbones through the wool of his trousers.

“Yes, you can undress me.”Because John seems to be hesitating now, and Sherlock wants it, wants it more than he has ever wanted anything in his life.

“Yeah?”John sounds breathless.Like a man standing at the threshold of a great cathedral, awed, ecstatic in the perceived presence of his god, and if that isn’t the most flattering thing, then…

“Yes.”

John’s fingers find the buttons at Sherlock’s cuffs.he looses first one, and then the other.He turns one of Sherlock’s hands over in his, pushes his sleeve up over his wrist, strokes his thumb over the pulse point.It sends an electric frisson of anticipation and desire racing over Sherlock’s skin, through his veins.

John lifts Sherlock’s wrist to his lips and presses them to that same pulse.Sherlock stops breathing.He watches as John does the same to his other wrist.

John Watson is a mystery, a great, beautiful, awe inspiring riddle Sherlock knows he could happily spend his life examining.But for now—for now he is more than happy to let John examine him.And John has moved on to the buttons on his placket, fingers lingering at his chest, knuckles brushing gently against his skin as he looses them.Sherlock closes his eyes, and counts to keep himself grounded. 

_One.Two.Three.Four._

John reaches the waistband of his trousers, and hesitates.

Sherlock opens his eyes, looks down at the top of John’s head, waits for him to glance up and catch his eye.When he does his eyes look full.“You can stop.”Sherlock assures him, even though he hopes very much he doesn’t.“It’s the rule.You can stop.”

John shakes his head, and looks back down at Sherlock’s trousers.He takes hold of his shirt, carefully prises it from beneath his waistband, and makes short order the last two buttons.He stops, fingers toying with either side of the open placket of Sherlock’s shirt.His eyes are fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s navel, and Sherlock wonders just what it is he plans to do next.

John’s fingers find the tab at Sherlock’s waistband, loose it, lower his zip.But when they lift to his waistband, they hesitate there, trembling, as John sucks in a shaking breath.He pushes down, watches Sherlock’s trousers drop in a heap around his ankles.He exhales.

Sherlock toes out of his shoes, socks, trousers, and John takes a small step back, to give him room, watches—rapt.He licks his lips when Sherlock finally steps out of his clothes, and back into John’s orbit. 

Sherlock wonders if John will remove his pants.He’s never been fully naked with another person before.Now that he’s standing here, on the brink, he’s rather eager.The way John is looking at him—it’s flattering, intoxicating, it’s…

“If you want to stop…”John says, eyes still fixed on his navel.

“Do you?”

And John does look up at that.The bright pink flush Sherlock loves so much has returned to his cheeks.He sniffs, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips before disappearing again.“Wanna see you.”

Sherlock nods.“Alright.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

John jerks his chin, like he’s made a monumental decision, like he’s going into battle, and perhaps it is one, of a sort, Sherlock thinks, but everything about John’s body language, from his flushed cheeks, to his heavy lids, from his warm, sure hands, to his burgeoning erection speak of want.

Sherlock isn’t hard, himself.He hopes that John won’t take that the wrong way.It’s not that he doesn’t want this.There are no words for how much he does, it’s simply that there is so much new data to take in that his brain can’t possibly still enough to let his body take precedence.

John’s hands are warm against his hips, his fingers hook beneath the waistband of Sherlock pants, and slide downward.Sherlock stares at John’s head, as he feels his pants whisper over his knees and calves, and fall to the floor.

John’s hands return to his hips.His eyes take in all he’s just exposed.Sherlock is flaccid, but his cock is still rather acceptable as far as genitals go, he thinks.He’s never felt he has anything to worry about.He’s well-formed, everything in proportion.Circumcised, sadly, due to his mother’s fastidious nature, and his father’s penchant for all things American, but other than that, a rather perfect specimen. 

John is worryingly quiet.

Sherlock isn’t sure what to say, or what to ask, so he says nothing, just continues to stare down at John’s head, to process the sensation of his small, warm hands resting on Sherlock’s hips.

When John’s head finally snaps up Sherlock can’t read what he sees in his eyes at all.All he can do is wait.

One of John’s hands lifts from Sherlock’s hip, comes to rest on his upper arm, slides slowly down, and falls away again.“Are you okay?”

Sherlock nods.

“Okay.”John’s eyes are still searching his.He wonders what it is he’s looking for.“Can I touch you?”

Sherlock nods again.

“Where?”

“Wherever you would like,” Sherlock replies with confidence.“I may, however, stop talking.”

“You’ll give me a pinch if you want me to stop?”

“Alright.”

“And you’ve never…?”

Sherlock shakes his head.“No.”

“Okay.”John’s eyes rake the length of his body again, pause on his cock, and then return to his face.“Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock knows this, of course, but it’s still a wonderful delight to hear it coming from John.He feels his cheeks heat, and this must please John as much as seeing John blush pleases him, because one corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes soften, and his hands find their way back to Sherlock’s hips as he takes a step forward and pulls Sherlock’s naked body against his clothed one.

John is hard beneath his trousers, and Sherlock pulls closer still, on instinct, which makes John’s breath catch and his head drop forward to rest against Sherlock’s chest.His fingers stir at Sherlock’s waist, slide up over his ribs even as John’s breath, warm and wonderful, whispers over Sherlock’s skin.

“Is this…?”John sounds breathless.“Is it okay?You’re not?”

“It’s more than alright, and I very much hope you are not planning on stopping, because I’m not…”

“Just want you to have a good time.”

“I am.”

“No, I mean, I want this to turn you on.Need to know what you need.” John sounds almost desperate.

“John.”

And John looks up at him, face a mask of worry and insecurity.“Not sure I quite know what I’m doing,” he confesses.“I need you to help me, here.Tell me what you want, how you want it.”

Sherlock inclines his head briefly downward.“That is not due to any lack of skill, or knowledge, or desirability on your part.It’s how I respond—usually.It is why my erection during our first session surprised me so much.My brain—my brain can’t seem to process large amounts of new sensory data and maintain at state of obvious arousal at the same time. If that means anything, it is that all of this is thrilling and pleasing me too much.Not that I am saying you should stop.But I am begging your patience.”

John looks completely lost.“So you want me to…?”

“Continue.Yes.”And when John continues to look unsure, “You will forgive me, but you are rather breathtaking like this, and I have absolutely no desire to stop.”

John nods slowly, accepting it.“Yeah?Yeah, okay.”He pulls Sherlock back against him.“And I can touch you anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll signal to stop, if…?”

“As I’ve said.Yes.Now I am begging you to please stop fussing and touch me.”

John huffs out a laugh and drops his gaze.He stares at the centre of Sherlock’s chest for a moment, and then tilts his head forward and presses his lips between Sherlock’s pectorals. 

Sherlock’s breath catches.

John’s hands leave his hips slide up his back, and Sherlock sways forward, his knees suddenly feeling weak, mouth watering.He suddenly knows exactly what he wants in a white hot flash of brilliant clarity.

“John…”And he hardly recognises his own voice.John looks up, eyes slightly wide at the sudden shift in Sherlock’s tone.

“That good?”

Sherlock nods.

“More?”

He nods again, and John dips back in, presses his lips a little to the left, presses soft strings of kisses over Sherlock’s chest that leave him dizzy and weak.When he sways on his feet, John pulls back and nods toward the bed, and Sherlock goes willingly, slides onto the mattress on his back, and stares at the ceiling for a moment before screwing his eyes shut.

“Can I keep kissing you?”

Sherlock swallows dryly, tries to say yes and can’t.He just nods, eyes still shut, and John must accept his response, because he feels the mattress dip beside him, feels the press of John’s body along his side, the warm press of his hand over his belly, John’s breath wafting over his shoulder, his lips warm and firm pressing against it, moving up the curve of it, to his neck, up, up behind his ear, and Sherlock makes a deep, rumbling, strung out sound of pure want that causes John to make a breathy sound in response. 

It lights Sherlock up.He can feel a warmth begin to pool in his abdomen, feel his brain begin to go blissfully white.He couldn’t string a thought together now if he wanted to, he thinks.There is only John, and John, and _John…_

But still, still he craves one thing, one thing he can no longer give voice to, and he hopes, beyond hope that John knows him well enough now, that they won’t need words. 

John has gone back to kissing his neck, his breath coming hot and quick against Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock reaches up, and over, and rests his hand atop John’s head.John looks up, and Sherlock catches his eye, holds his gaze, feels a little awed at the flush of John’s cheeks, the glistening pink of his lips, the heavy weight of his eyelids drooping over irises that have all but disappeared.

Sherlock lets his eyes drop in the direction of his lips, hoping John will understand, and when John’s brow knits instead, Sherlock lifts a finger there and hopes.He sees John’s eyes soften, sees him smile.“You want me to kiss you.”

_Thank god._

Sherlock nods, and watches John closely to see if he will offer up any resistance, but he sees no sign of it.Instead John looks pleased, relieved.“Yeah.Yeah, I can do that.”He shifts up and leans in a little closer, lifts a hand to Sherlock’s hair, thumb teasing the the waves at his temple, he leans down, and Sherlock stops breathing.He has to close his eyes.He waits.He doesn’t have to wait long.

John’s forehead comes to rest against his, John’s nose brushes against his, and his breath whispers over Sherlock’s lips.They stay like that for long minutes, sharing one another’s breath, and Sherlock feels his eyes bite behind closed lids, feels them fill, and spill over, tears squeezing from the corners to run down and dampen the hair at his temples.

“You okay?”John whispers against his mouth.

He nods.

You sure?”

He nods again.

John’s nose nudges gently at his, and then his lips press to Sherlock’s, warm, and dry, and infinitely tender, and Sherlock feels a heavy sort of calm settle over him at the caress, like his limbs have gone to jelly and his flesh to liquid.He reaches up and wraps his arms around John, pulls him closer, feels John let out a small huff of surprise, feels his mouth stretch into a smile against Sherlock’s, and then John’s mouth begins to move against his, and Sherlock is lost.

It isn’t a place he’s ever been before.It’s quiet, wholly quiet.A still, heavy, white blank of a space, and Sherlock is peripherally aware of John’s mouth moving against his, slow, hypnotic presses, and pulls, the brief sensation of John’s tongue teasing along the seam of his mouth, not pressing, just ghosting there, sending Sherlock deeper, and deeper.

Sometimes he finds the space for breathing.Sometimes he tastes the salt on John’s lips, and thinks of the taste of his own tears on John’s mouth, thinks of John’s inherent taste, a little like the sea, a little like fresh brewed tea.

He smiles and feels John smile back.He kisses him more, and when he feels John’s tongue teasing at his mouth again, he opens to him, and John enters him with a nasal gasp and a long moan, folds his body against Sherlock’s even as he tastes him, his tongue filling, gliding, wet and undulating, somehow beautiful and filthy all at once.

John is hard, and twitching in his trousers, erection so hard it must be bordering on painful, but he isn’t chasing more sensation, even though Sherlock’s thigh is right there, firm, muscled, unyielding.In his current state John could chase himself to completion in seconds, but he holds back, and Sherlock doesn’t have enough mental space to consider it.He lets it go.He tangles his tongue with John’s, reaching out to taste him, and John shudders against him, moans into his mouth, all but rolls on top of him. 

The added weight and pressure is delicious.Sherlock can feel himself growing hard.He is grateful, for John’s sake, and John does seem to notice, his breath quickens, he moans into Sherlock’s mouth, and oh how the sounds he makes seem to shoot straight to Sherlock’s centre, to crawl under his skin, seep into his veins, flood every cell with want.

“John,”the only word Sherlock can seem to manage.“ _John…_ ”

And John interprets it as it was meant—hunger, need, surrender.

“Christ…”It comes out a whimper.“You’re so fucking beautiful.You—you’re so fucking beautiful.”Like it’s a revelation.

And all Sherlock can manage is to moan into John’s mouth again.To thrill in the feeling of John slowly getting as lost to sensation as Sherlock.His kisses begin to falter, his breath nothing but a series of panting whispers.His hips are completely still, but his erection is pressed against Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock can feel it throb and twitch with each new sound he makes.

Sherlock moans deep, and feels John’s cock throb.

“Oh—Oh Christ.”

Sherlock deepens their kiss, moans again, shifts his hip just a little, and something in John breaks. With a soft grunt and whine, he finally shifts and presses himself against Sherlock’s leg, thrusting against him frantic, desperate, until he tenses, shudders and shouts, rocks himself through it, with a series of long strangled moans that make Sherlock’s skin burst into gooseflesh, and toes curl, and his cock throb in sympathy.

It’s more beautiful than he could have imagined, seeing John finally let himself go, let himself chase his pleasure, spill into his own pants, wet, and hot, and utterly gorgeous.Sherlock can smell him, the scent of arousal, and sex, and semen.It’s heady, and delicious, and he hopes that today has been the first of many experiments they will engage in together, because he feels like he could spend a lifetime exploring the way John tastes, feels, smells, exploring all the ways he can make him moan, and shout, and whine, teasing out new sounds, cataloguing them, building a data set, composing symphonies of sensation out of all he has gleaned.

John is very still beside him, he suddenly realises.He wants to ask if he is alright, but words still refuse to come, and so he rolls over slightly, pulls John into his arms, and John lets him, seems to curl into his warmth willingly, but still, he is silent.

They lie together a very long time.Sherlock hears Mrs Hudson’s radio click on downstairs, the water in her kitchen sink turn on and then off.She’s making him his morning tea.She will be up with it soon. 

Sherlock pets John’s head, buries his nose in his mussed and rumpled hair, and presses his lips to his crown.John shudders and twitches in his arms, breath hitching.Again.Again.He’s crying, Sherlock suddenly realises.

A wave of anxiety crashes over him, but when John doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to leave, but only curls in closer, Sherlock feels some of it dissipate.He rolls onto his side, pulls John in against his chest, reaches back and pulls the coverlet around him like a cocoon, and waits.

He hears Mrs. Hudson come up with the tea.She leaves again when it becomes apparent he’s still in bed.She will no doubt have some ridiculous thing to say about it when she sees him next.He makes a mental note to try to avoid her for the rest of the day.Perhaps she will forget about it, the urge to be sentimental and ridiculous lessening with time.

John stirs against him, and Sherlock looks down.“Are you alright?”

_Ahh.Words.Good._

“Sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologise for.”

John won’t look at him.He presses his forehead to the centre of Sherlock’s chest and sniffs.“Shouldn’t have—like that.If I made you feel…”

“You made me feel rather like I’d just won the national lottery.What is this?”

And John does look up a that.His cheeks are flaming, eyes red-rimmed.“I didn’t mean to—rub up on you like that.If I made you feel…”

“Isn’t that what people do?”

“What?”

“I thought that was part of the experience.I hardly think one expects to make love to someone and not rub up on them at least a little.”

John’s cheeks somehow manage to grow redder.It appears Sherlock has struck him dumb.

Sherlock decides to try a different tack.“This isn’t a cuddle session, John.You’re allowed to…”

“I know that!”He snaps.

Sherlock blinks, and John’s eyes drop away.

“Sorry.I’m sorry, I just—you mean the world to me, this means the world to me, and I don’t want you to think that I’m just using you for…”

“I didn’t.Not for a moment.”

John searches his eyes, and then nods, looks away.“Meant this to be about you.”

“And it was.”

John’s eyes snap up.“You didn’t come.”

“And I don’t particularly care.”

This seems to throw John completely.

“Sometimes it is easier for me if I don’t.I can’t explain it.Not for lack of wanting, but because I don’t fully understand it myself.But I loved everything we did.All of it, John.I need you to know that.”

John nods, but he doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“It was fine.It was good.I love you,” Sherlock tells him, because he thinks he might need reminding.

“I know you do.”And Sherlock wonders why John sounds saddened by the reminder, rather than comforted.

“Would you rather we…”When he hesitates, John looks up.“Would you rather we not do this again?”Because he needs to know.

John looks pained at the question.“No.No, I’m not saying that.I—I don’t want you to ever think this is about you, that I’m saying I don’t want…I do want.I want so much I…”John’s face screws up and Sherlock wonders if he is going to cry again, but he seems to master himself after a couple of deep breaths, and he continues.“This isn’t about you.”

“Then what is it about?”

John shakes his head, and looks away, and Sherlock sighs.

John looks up again at the sound.“You remember I told you that I loved what we did the other night, but when I went home, when I had time to think about it…”

“You had doubts.”

John nods and stares at the centre of Sherlock’s chest.

“You felt shame.”Sherlock clarifies, and John’s head snaps up, brows knit.His eyes fill.

“Yeah.”It’s barely a whisper.

“It’s wanted, John.Know that.Please.Anything you want to give me is wanted.”

John shakes his head.“You don’t know the half of what I want.”

“Perhaps not.But, I know you.”

“No you don’t.You barely know me.”

Sherlock pulls back a little.“Then tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me exactly what you want.All of it.”

John’s mouth parts in shock.“I can’t.”

“Why?”And when he gets no response.“Why, John?”

“Because you won’t want me anymore!”John looks stunned that the words have actually come out of his mouth, and Sherlock feels like he’s seeing him in new light.

“I cannot fathom anything you might want that could make that a possibility.”

“You don’t know,” John whispers.

“You’ve had girlfriends, have you not?”

John frowns.“Yeah.”

“And you’ve had sex with them, I presume.”

“Of course.Yeah.”

“And did you ever explore this thing with them?”

“Maybe.A little.”

“And were any of them disgusted, repulsed, horrified?”

“No.But they were—they were good time girls.They—they were up for anything, you know.”

“And you think that I’m not?”

“Sherlock, by your own admission, you’ve never…”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.“Is that what this is about?The fact that I’ve never had intercourse?”

John’s mouth pops closed.

“I’m not a child.I’ve simply never had the desire to engage in this sort of relationship with someone before.You, apparently, are the exception.I’m enjoying myself—thoroughly.So perhaps we could continue?As I’ve said, I would very much like to keep doing what we’ve been doing.And I will remind you, that you were the one who suggested us doing more in the first place.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect…”

“Didn’t expect what?”Sherlock’s patience is wearing thin, and it’s evident in his tone.

“I didn’t expect to feel what I feel for you.”John blurts. “I didn’t expect to like you so much, to want you so much.I didn’t expect to get turned on just seeing you walk across the flat to make a cup of tea.I—I’ve known that I—but it’s never been like this—with anyone.”

“Well then it seems we are both in the same boat.Let’s enjoy it, shall we.I think you will find I am a bit of a hedonist, John.I don’t believe in denying one’s self simply for the sake of denial.If you want to deny yourself one pleasure for the sake and pursuit of a greater one, then so be it, but don’t deny yourself simply because some person, some religion, some non-existent god requests or requires it.”

John is blinking at him, stunned.“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“How do you look at me, and just…”

“It’s how my brain works.Putting patterns together.”

He sees the tension drop from John’s shoulders.“How are you not tired of me yet?”

Sherlock smiles.“I think I could spend a lifetime plumbing your depths, and never come close to unravelling your mysteries.Of course I’m not tired of you.”

John smiles softly.

“Though,” Sherlock admits.“Your constant self-flagellation is getting a bit waring.”

“Yeah.”John sounds weary.“For me too.”

“Then perhaps you could try enjoying yourself, and me, instead.”

John grins.“Not a bad idea.”

“Indeed.”

“Maybe I could kiss you again?”

“Thank god.”

John huffs softly, and then swoops in and does exactly as promised.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Please heed the new tags added for this chapter - #Frottage, #Hand Jobs, #Briefly Referenced Self Harm, #Implied/Referenced Child Abuse.
> 
> The implied past self harm and child abuse have to do with scars John and Sherlock see on one another's bodies. They don't talk about it in much if any detail, but the inference is there.

The next few days are a blur. 

John goes back to his flat and returns with two boxes and single duffle bag.All his worldly belongings.He unpacks his clothes into the drawers Sherlock empties for him.He hangs the rest in the spot Sherlock makes in his wardrobe.His other personal affects find their way into the loo, and the kitchen, and his chair by the hearth.

Clients come and go.

John’s presence in these moments is grounding. He sits and takes notes of what their clients say.Sometimes he lifts a brow, or frowns, or clears his throat if Sherlock isn’t being as solicitous as he might.

Sherlock should be irritated by these little reminders, a throwback to rapped knuckles, and firm pushes back into his seat, to favourite toys, and books, and other treasures withheld until he learned to act like a proper little boy.But with John it isn’t like that.More a simple, firm reminder, underpinned always with the aura of fondness that seems have settled over John like an ever-present glow. 

And so Sherlock is able to catch himself, to correct without the usual pang of guilt and irritation.They make a good team, he thinks.

* * *

 

On Friday Sherlock wakes to an empty bed, and to the sound of John chatting with someone in the kitchen.He scrambles up, presses his ear to the door and recognises his brother’s voice instantly.

“I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

Sherlock holds his breath. _This.Always this._ It had been the same with Victor, the same with Sebastian.Whenever he thought he might have found a friend, there was his brother with an open billfold, and an offer, and… 

“In exchange for what?”

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.” 

“Why?” 

“I worry about him. Constantly.” 

“That’s nice of you.”But John doesn’t mean it.His voice is tight, impatient, and just a little smart.Sherlock smiles. 

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship.” 

 _“_ No.” 

Sherlock flushes at John’s quick refusal. 

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.” 

 _“_ Don’t bother.” 

Sherlock’s heart sings. 

“You’re very loyal,  _very_  quickly.”His brother sounds amused, a little incredulous, but Sherlock thinks he can hear the fear behind it.A man he can’t control.A man who can’t be bought, who won’t agree to be his spy and puppet. 

“Like I said.Not interested.”

And Sherlock thinks it’s time he makes an appearance.He snatches a dressing gown from his wardrobe, shrugs it on and leaves it open even though he’s only wearing pants beneath.He pauses for a moment, in front of the mirror, and artfully musses his hair, before strolling out in the kitchen as though he’s just woken up from the best post-coital sleep of his life.

Mycroft looks up as he enters, taking him in from head-to-toe.His eyebrows arch to the ceiling before he catches himself and punctuates the expression with a dramatic roll of his eyes.“Good-morning, brother.”

“Why are you here?”

John slides back from the table and gets to his feet, motioning for Sherlock to take up the chair he’s just vacated.“Think he wants me to spy on you.Told him no, obviously.”

“Obviously.”Sherlock drawls, and delights in the look of shock and slight colour that comes to his brother’s face as Sherlock slides into the seat John’s vacated for him.“John isn’t one of your little puppets.”Sherlock glares.

“So it seems.”And if anything, Sherlock thinks his brother sounds impressed.It wasn’t something he’d anticipated.

John appears at Sherlock’s side, a cup of warm tea in hand, which he sets down in front of him, before giving his shoulder a squeeze.He stays, standing firm and strong—a sentinel.Sherlock is so grateful he could cry.He’s not felt this sure footed around his brother in years.

“How’s Irena?”

“Fine.I’ve told you to stay out of it.”

“And I have.”

Mycroft’s gaze flits momentarily to John, and then back again.“So I see.”

“I promised her her wife would be safe.I don’t like breaking promises.”

“Her wife is a very silly woman, with a level of scruples one could hardly imagine given her line of work.It is going to get her killed one way or another.”

“Perhaps.But not on my watch.”

Mycroft sighs.“What is this?It’s unlike you to care about such petty, domestic matters.”And Mycroft looks to John again, sizing him up, assuming, Sherlock guesses, that it is all John’s doing.And perhaps it is, in a way, but so what?

“I will let this go, Mycroft, but only if you give me your word that you will arrange an out for them both.She is in over her head.”

“It would take a great deal more than this to get Irena Adler in over her head.That’s your problem, little brother.You’re blinded by the elusion of ‘damsel in distress’.It’s always been your weakness, this ridiculous empathy for the broken, the needy, the desperate…”

Sherlock squirms, and feels John’s grip tighten on his shoulder.“Nothing wrong with wanting to keep one’s word.Besides, it will be pretty bad for business if our clients keep showing up dead.”

And Sherlock is amazed at just how well John is able to speak a language his brother understands.Mycroft’s eyes snap up to him when he speaks, and his face does something delightful, like he’s just tasted a bit of bitter medicine he knows he must swallow none-the-less.

“Irena Adler is more dangerous than you realise.”His gaze returns to Sherlock.“And now that she finds herself backed into a corner, you can be sure that she will go to any means necessary to ensure the outcome she desires.”

“Then perhaps you should allow me to help her.”

“No.”

Sherlock sighs and slouches back in his seat.“And you’re not going to tell me what any of this is about?”

“The less you know, the safer you are.”

“And all the more blind,”John adds.“Can you guarantee this isn’t walking us into an ambush?” 

Mycroft stares at him like he’s some rare and curious specimen.

“Classified information.I can appreciate that,” John continues.“But men in three piece suits making decisions they deem necessary have lost me men—good men, loyal men—more times than I can count.So you’ll forgive me, but I don’t know you well enough to know that your judgement can be trusted. 

“So sure, keep your information to yourself if you want, but if it ends up walking him into the line of fire, you and I are going to be having quite a different conversation.”

John’s tone is respectful, almost casual, but there is a lethal thread running just under the surface that sends a shiver chasing up the length of Sherlock’s spine, and he can see it register with Mycroft, too.His brother sits a little straighter in his seat, grips the handle of the umbrella in his hand just a little tighter.

“Doctor Watson, with all due respect…”

“Quite a different conversation.”John repeats a little more firmly.

“Are you attempting to threaten me, because I can assure you that that won’t end well for you.”

Sherlock hears John sniff beside him.“Handle the situation however you see fit.Just make sure it doesn’t come back on him.”John’s tone is unwavering, and Sherlock feels an expected flood of arousal bloom in his belly.Inconvenient, but thrilling.

“If you are quite finished, Mycroft, I have better things to do with my morning than entertain your pontificating,”Sherlock adds for good measure.

Mycroft sighs and gets to his feet.“Yes, I suppose I should get back.There’s a little thing with North Korea that needs attending to.”

If he was expecting John to be cowed or impressed by this declaration, then he is in for a disappointment.John just walks over to the sink and starts filling it to do the washing up.Mycroft scowls at his back, looks over at Sherlock, who simply cocks a brow in impatience, and then he gets up and leaves.

John waits until the door shuts downstairs to speak.“He always like that?”

“Mmm.Most of the time.”Sherlock gets up, and strolls over to the sink, where John is slipping the mountain of mugs stacked beside it into the sudsy water.He wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him back against his body, hoping that John will feel the effect his magnificent performance has just had.

John freezes and then glances over his shoulder with a grin, before turning in Sherlock’s arms.His eyes drift downward.“What’s all that about then?”

“You.”

“Oh yeah?What in particular?”

“I’ve never seen my brother so flustered.”

“Mmm…”John hums and reaches back to cup Sherlock’s arse and pull him closer.“Liked that did you?”

Sherlock shifts a little so that his burgeoning erection grinds against John’s belly.“What do you think?”

“I think the washing up can wait, and that I should take you back to bed.”

“See.So much more clever than you look.”

“Oi!”John gives his arse a squeeze which sends a fresh, sharp jolt of lust straight to his cock.It makes Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat and his lips pop open in a small inhalation of surprise.

John’s brows lift, and he chuckles.

Sherlock loves this bit, the light-hearted teasing and banter that comes before the fevered groping, and kissing, and frenzied frotting.They’ve started to find their stride this week, to discover a familiar and pleasant sort of choreography and routine.It feels comforting, safe, and it’s new enough to not be boring.

And John—John is seemingly growing less fussed, less hesitant as time goes on.True, he has yet to strip wholly naked, has yet to let Sherlock be the one to coax an orgasm from him (though he has come often, frotting frantically against Sherlock’s body, face hot and buried in his neck), but he’s warming, growing soft, and relaxed and comfortable in the same way Sherlock is.It’s slow progress, but Sherlock thinks he could go on this way for some time before he would ever start to crave something more.

John gives his arse another squeeze, and then lets his hands drift to Sherlock’s hips.“Bed?”

Sherlock nods, breath already shallow.“Yes.”

John’s hands are everywhere the minute they shut the door behind them, and Sherlock lets himself be stripped of his meagre clothing, and then surges forward and claims John’s mouth with his own, desperate, and hungry, and burning, feels John stiffen in surprise, and then melt, giving as good as he gets, their tongues a wet, hot tangle, breath synchronising, quick and shallow. 

Sherlock feels drunk with it.

“Liked that, did you?”John breathes against Sherlock’s lips when he pulls back to catch his breath.“Liked me putting your brother in his place?”

And Sherlock kisses him again, until John is moaning, and hard as a rock against him.

“Always gonna put you first.”John rasps in his ear, and Sherlock feels like he’s flying, like his legs will hardly hold him, and if he doesn’t sit or lie down soon, John will have to scoop him up like some swooning maiden and carry him to bed. 

Ridiculous.Ludicrous.Quite possible.

Sherlock’s knees buckle, and John’s arm is there, wrapping around his waist, his body crowding Sherlock back against the mattress until the back of Sherlock’s calves hit it, and he topples backwards, taking John with him.John huffs slightly at the impact, and then grins.“Christ you’re gorgeous.Just look at you.”

Sherlock reaches out, and pulls John’s shirt from beneath the waistband of his trousers, slips his hands underneath and slides them up the smooth plane of John’s back.John is warm and already sticky with sweat.He goes rigid at Sherlock’s touch.Sherlock searches his eyes, sees things there he doesn’t understand.“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“How to touch you.”

“Could kiss me again.”

“Alright.”Sherlock pulls his hands from beneath John’s shirt, and settles them around his waist, and kisses him until he feels the tension leave his body, and both of their erections grow less insistent.John’s tongue is a lazy caress in his mouth, his hands exploring every naked inch of Sherlock’s body, except for the bridge he has not yet let himself cross.He seems relaxed, and Sherlock thinks he might ask…

“May I undress you?”

And there it is, the tension, all returning in an instant.But John is looking at him in a way that tells Sherlock he’s not been wrong to ask.John wants this.He does.He wants to, but…

To Sherlock’s surprise, he nods.

“Alright.”Sherlock reaches up for the top button of John’s shirt, looses it, whispers the pads of his fingers over John’s suprasternal notch, watches John’s adam’s apple bob and his lips part.Sherlock moves on to the next button, and the next.John is wearing a cotton vest under his shirt. 

It’s something Sherlock is learning about him.Multiple layers of armour, a myriad of masks, layer after layer of hidden secrets, fears, loves, appetites.John seems to think it something shameful and risky but Sherlock is simply intrigued.To unwrap him layer-by-layer, over a stretch of weeks, and months, and years…What could be better?Every day a new mystery to solve.Every day a new man revealed.He’ll never be bored.

“Take it off.”

John sits up, settles on Sherlock’s thighs and shrugs out of his shirt, tosses it onto the bed beside him.Sherlock drags a finger over John’s belly, over the cotton of his vest.Feels the muscles jump and tense beneath the soft pad of his flesh.“This too.”

“I’m a bit of a mess.”

“I doubt that,” Sherlock murmurs.

He sees John consider, and then he does as asked, shrugging out of the vest, his wounded shoulder clearly stiffer, and with less range of motion than the other.He sets the vest aside, can’t meet Sherlock’s gaze. 

He is beautiful, Sherlock thinks, not beautiful in the way Sherlock is, not all flawless skin, and sculpted muscle, and lean, taut flesh.No, John is scarred, and soft, and fiercely, impressively strong (in so many ways), and Sherlock can read whole stories written on his flesh. 

He reaches out and slides a finger along one rib.John watches him, looks up when Sherlock pauses at a small, pale pock mark, an old scar, one of many strung along John’s ribs like pearls.Some are small (cigarette), others larger (cigarette lighter from an automobile). 

Sherlock moves on, traces the backs of his knuckles over John’s belly, it’s soft and nearly hairless, his chest too.What little hair there is, is blond, and fine, and the softness there seems so in contrast with the muscle beneath, with the firm set of John’s shoulders, and the white-knuckled tightness of the fist trembling against the outside of Sherlock’s thigh, that Sherlock finds it thrilling and fascinating, and better than he could have ever imagined.

He leaves the scar at John’s shoulder for last.From this vantage point it is a deep pock with keloid scars radiating out from the centre where the flesh was obviously cut into more than once.There had been shrapnel missed.There had been infection.The back of his shoulder, where the exit wound is, is likely worse.Sherlock’s own shoulder throbs in empathy.

“Told you.”It’s barely a whisper.

Sherlock looks up, waits until John finally manages to look at him.“You’re perfect.”

He doesn’t understand why John looks pained at the words.

“You are,” he repeats.

John just shakes his head, and Sherlock holds out his hands, bares his forearms to John.They’re peppered with a decade’s worth of track marks and thin stripes from the razor blades he’d used to numb the pain in that one difficult year after college and before he’d moved to Miami.John has always very considerately not mentioned them.

“What do you see?”Sherlock asks now.

John lays a hand over Sherlock’s arm.“You don’t have to do this.”

“John…What do you see?”

“I see you.”John says, without needing to look at his arm again.

“And that is what I see, when I look at you. _You_.Your story.Your history.Everything that brought you here, now.Everything that brought us together.And I’m grateful.”And when John’s face pinches into something tight, and anxious.“Of course I wish you might have been spared the lot of it, but I imagine that would mean we never would have met, and I can’t bear to think of a universe in which that is a possibility.”

John’s eyes go red, but Sherlock sees him consider it, weigh it, accept it.“Yeah,” whispered at last, and Sherlock moves his hands to John’s hips, slides them around to the front of his trousers, hovering over his belt buckle. 

“May I?”

John licks his lips and then nods, and Sherlock makes short order of the business, loosening and removing his belt, unfastening his trousers, pulling down his zip.John’s erection has all but flagged now, but he is still visibly thick, the soft bulge of him more than evident beneath the cotton of his pants.Sherlock’s mouth waters, and he reaches out, looks up at John’s face, to be sure, and when he sees nothing but raw, open hunger there he trails a single finger over the the line of John’s cock, listens to his breath catch, and then release in a small huff.Sherlock does it again, and that is when John’s hand shoots out to snatch his wrist.It’s not forceful or firm.It’s gentle, but instructive enough.Sherlock lays his other hand atop John’s until John releases him.

“Will you take them off.I won’t touch.I just want to see you.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to be.”

John stares down at Sherlock’s chest.When he looks up again, it’s clear he’s made a decision.“Yeah.Yeah, I’ll take them off.”He gets up, he strips quickly and efficiently, and he is beautiful, Sherlock thinks, with muscular thighs, and a perfectly formed arse, and a cock that is thick and heavy, nestled in a thatch of sparse, blond curls.

But now that John has stripped he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.He stands beside the bed, slightly awkward.Not blushing, not shy exactly, and Sherlock is glad of that, because he has nothing at all to be ashamed of, but it’s clear he’s not exactly certain how he should proceed.

“Come back to bed.”Sherlock orders, soft but firm, and that seems to spur John into action.He does as he’s told, without hesitation, crawls onto the mattress and lies down beside Sherlock rather than on top of him.

“Alright?”

John nods.“Yeah.Bit cold, though.”

“Should we get under the covers?”

“Yes.”

They get up and then resettle beneath the cocoon of warm, rumpled sheets.Sherlock draws close, until he is sharing John’s pillow, and can feel the warmth of John’s body radiating against his.He breathes John’s breath for a moment or two, and then decides to give him the space and respite he may need to process everything that’s just happened. 

“What you did, when my brother was here, turning down his offer, that was—good.”

He can see the momentary confusion and then relief in John’s eyes, as Sherlock starts up a conversation, rather than initiating some physical intimacy right away.

“Yeah?Well, of course I would.He always do that?”

“He has a history of it, yes."

John shakes his head.“What’s his problem?”

“I believe he thinks me incapable of taking care of myself.”

John sniffs in undisguised irritation.“Tad intrusive.”

“Yes.A bit.”Sherlock pulls a little closer.“But thank you.For everything.”

“Yeah.Right.Sure.I’m always going to do that, okay.I want you to know that.If this is…”He struggles, for a moment to find the right words.“If you and me are—something, then I’m always going to stand with you.That’s a part of it—for me anyway.Together or not at all.”

Sherlock wants very much to kiss him, and it must be evident on his face, because John draws closer, lets Sherlock cup his jaw in the palm of his hand, and draw them close.It’s tender, and slow, and deep, and Sherlock can feel John lose himself to it after a minute or two, his body drawing nearer, and nearer until they're pressed together, limbs naturally entwining, bodies slotting together, and Sherlock can feel John pressed against his belly, growing harder again, and not minding. 

It’s so much more, like this.Both of them naked.Skin-on-skin.Sherlock is overwhelmed quickly, but he doesn’t want to stop.He hopes John understands.He seems to.They kiss a long time, keeping the flame of their mutual desire stoked low and even, neither of them trying to chase their way to something more.

John smells different like this, there is a musk and a salt tang to his bare skin that is heady and delicious, and Sherlock’s mouth waters.He would taste if he thought John might like that, but he decides to save it for the next time, because John is humming low the back of his throat, and starting to whisper things that Sherlock is missing, and so he refocusses, brings himself back.

“Wanna make you feel good.”

“You do.You are,” Sherlock assures him, relieved that he can somehow still think straight, can still make words as John’s fingers tangle in his hair, scratch lightly on his scalp, curl and and tug, even as John’s kisses deepen, and body begins to surge against Sherlock’s like an incoming tide.

“Wanna touch you.”

“Then touch me.”

One of John’s hands is at his hip, it inches down, between their bodies, and Sherlock thinks he can deduce its intended destination.He breaks their kiss, because he wants to see, wants to see everything there is to see the first time John takes him in hand.

John’s eyes snap open, suddenly worried, but Sherlock only smiles and nods, and thrills when John’s eyes drop away again, and his hand dips further between them.Sherlock tilts his hips back to give him room. 

He’s half hard.That should please John.He hopes he can keep his erection when John touches him, or knowing John, he will feel inadequate. 

The backs of John’s fingers whisper over the side of his shaft, and it’s a pleasant, sweet feeling, but then John seems to find his courage, and he rests the whole of his palm against it, and presses with a pressure that sends sparks flying over Sherlock’s skin and a thick, hot ache blooming in his centre.Sherlock gasps, and John’s eyes snap up.“Okay?”

Sherlock nods.“Yes.”He can hear it in his own voice, the wonder, the pleasure, the hunger.

John’s lips spread into a soft smile.“Oh yeah?”

Sherlock nods again.

And that is when John swoops in, presses deep, sucking, sloppy kisses to Sherlock’s neck, and starts to palm him in earnest.Sherlock lets out a small grunt of surprise, gasps, toes curling, and then moans long, and loud, and feels John’s lips lift from his neck for a moment, puff a hot breath against his neck, feels his own cock fill and throb against John’s palm, feels that bright, hot thing he’s only ever been able to tease from himself on rare occasions, already starting to build.

He thinks he should warn John, but he knows that if he says anything, John will stop, and he doesn’t want him to stop.Stopping is the very last thing on earth he wants him to do. 

It’s too dry to be wholly pleasurable.It’s fumbling, and hungry, and just this side of uncomfortable, but Sherlock is grateful for that, because it’s keeping him grounded and present enough to focus on the building pleasure, to sink into it, embrace it, coax it along.

He moans, feels John’s cock, hard and insistent, throb against his hip in sympathy.John huffs out a bitten-off expletive, and scrapes his teeth over the long line of Sherlock’s neck, bites down when he reaches the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder.It’s hard enough to hurt, but not so hard as to be unpleasant, it adds another layer of sensation that shocks Sherlock’s brain out of the blank white stupor he usually sinks into when trying to achieve an orgasm. 

Sherlock shouts at the surprise of it, hips arching up off the bed, seeking out more of John’s touch, and John doesn’t disappoint, he wraps his small, strong, capable hand firmly around Sherlock’s cock, and gives a long, languorous pull, root to tip.

Sherlock gasps, feels his nipples peak, and his hair follicles tingle, and his balls draw up tight, and then…

John’s hand moves, pulls again, and Sherlock is coming with a shout, and explosion of sensation so powerful he can feel his muscles tense, tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes, can hear himself making sounds that should be embarrassing, but which seem to be spurring John on to previously unforeseen heights of arousal.

“Oh Christ.Oh Jesus, Sherlock.God!” 

John is a blur of breath, and sound, and movement, and Sherlock is too far under the fog of post-coital bliss to full process it.A pity he thinks, but there will be other moments to file away and process.

John crashes against him, his hand still moving between their bodies, but now Sherlock realises that John has himself in hand, slick with everything Sherlock had just spent between them.He gazes up at John’s face, eyes screwed shut and brow knit, face flushed scarlet, lips parted.He looks desperate.He looks like he’s in pain.

Sherlock reaches out and wraps his arms around him, strains up to kiss his neck, and John cries out, his forehead dropping to Sherlock’s cheek, panting in small, strangled whimpers, looking more and more desperate.Sherlock splays his fingers over John’s back.“Shhh…It’s alright.Come, John.You can come.”

And John does.With a strangled cry that sounds more like a sob of relief than pleasure, he spills between their bodies, and then shudders, and collapses against Sherlock, totally still.

Sherlock feels like he can breathe again.

John starts to shiver, and so Sherlock reaches down and pulls the blankets up and over the two of them, wraps his arms back around John’s waist, and waits.They lie that way for a very long time.Mrs. Hudson is hoovering.She never hoovers in the morning. Evidently they were rather too loud.Sherlock thinks that perhaps he should get her some noise cancelling headphones as a courtesy.

“You okay?”John murmurs against Sherlock’s chest.He doesn’t move otherwise, just the one question.

“I believe one would describe the feeling as—blissful.”

John huffs against his skin.

“Are you alright?”Sherlock asks carefully, because he needs to be sure.

John nods, and Sherlock tightens his grip around his waist.


	12. Chapter 12

Over the next few days, Sherlock watches John slowly weave himself in the weft and warp of life at 221b Baker Street.He seems a little lost.He’s quiet.He’s distant.But he’s starting to fit. 

Sherlock tries not to worry.

And then there is a case—a proper one.One that ends badly.

And that is when everything changes…

* * *

 

Sherlock knows he’s in trouble the minute he rounds the corner, oxfords skidding on wet pavement, and comes face-to-face with a large, meaty fist.He hears his nose break.Stars flash before his eyes, and then he takes a blow to the gut that bends him in half, and sends him lurching to the pavement with a groan.

It all happens so quickly his brain doesn’t have time to catch up, and then a boot is hitting him in the ribs, and all he can do is curl tight, do his utmost to protect everything important, and hope beyond hope that John isn’t far behind him.

He feels a sharp pain in his side and prays it isn’t a rib breaking.

And then, suddenly, he hears a familiar shout, the slap of shoes on pavement, and then the sound of fists on flesh, of a large body being easily felled, and a shout of agony.Sherlock uncurls as best he can, peeks through an already swelling eye and sees John with the great hulk of a man pinned to the pavement, the man’s leg bent at an unnatural angle at the knee, his arm twisted behind his back, and John’s free fist, pummelling him about the head with what is probably unnecessary force.

Sherlock’s heart stops, his breath catching in his throat, at the sight of so much ferocious rage unleashed.This is a John he has never seen before.Wild.Almost feral.“John…”Sherlock manages, just loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain and background hum of the city around them.“John!”

John’s fist freezes.His eyes snap in Sherlock’s direction.He looks stunned, and then pained.“You okay?”

Sherlock nods and winces.“I believe he’s had enough.You’ve made your point.”

The man is clearly unconscious (hopefully not dead). 

John’s chest is heaving, cheeks flushed, his hair is sticking to his forehead in lank, sodden strands, and there is a vein straining against the usually smooth surface of his forehead.He looks back down at the man beneath him, reaches down for a pulse, and then climbs off him and rushes to Sherlock’s side, kneeling beside him on the pavement, where he can still see their suspect if he tries to move, but where he has decent access to Sherlock as well.

“Where does it hurt?”John’s hands are warm, even in the cold, driving rain.They probe Sherlock’s hairline, ghost over his eyebrow, whisper over a cheekbone, press lightly to his lip.“Your nose is broken.”

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt to breathe?”

Sherlock nods.

“Shit.”John stares down to the end of the alley.“Where the fuck are Lestrade’s people?”

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials.

Sherlock keeps an eye on their suspect.He isn’t moving at all.

John says things, clipped, and angry sounding.It’s clear he’s worried..He’ll be able to keep all his masks firmly in place for hours yet.The adrenaline drop will come later, but for now he is a force of nature, fierce, competent, and brave.His hands are on Sherlock’s body, probing gently at his ribs. 

“This hurt?”

“Yes.”

“An ambulance is coming.Don’t talk.Just—just try to breathe slow and even.You’ve got a couple of broken ribs I think.”

The man across from them stirs, and John adjusts his stance to give himself more leverage.But the man merely moans, and then tries to prop himself on one elbow, before promptly vomiting violently onto the pavement.Not a good sign.John gets to his feet, strolls over to ensure the man isn’t aspirating in a pool of his own vomit, Sherlock assumes.

“Try to run, and I’ll finish what I started.”John growls.“You’re lucky you’re not dead already.”

Sherlock shivers.And it’s not just the cold. 

John means it.It’s no empty threat.

* * *

 

Lestrade’s people do finally show up, and Sherlock is carted into an ambulance. John rides along, hovering in one corner and dutifully keeping a proper distance to let the medics do their work.He refuses care when they ask to attend to his bruised and bloodied knuckles.He follows Sherlock’s stretcher into the A&E, and gives his forearm an encouraging squeeze before he’s carted off to radiology.

When he finally strolls back into Sherlock’s cordoned off cubicle an hour or so later, he is holding an icepack over knuckles wrapped in gauze, and has an exhausted, hungover look about him.

“They’re going to release you soon.”He flops down into the plastic chair beside Sherlock’s bed. 

“Good.Too much fuss.”

“You have two broken ribs and a broken nose.Good chance the nose is going to need surgery.”

Sherlock lifts his hand to his nose in shock, at the proclamation, and then lets it drop again, when he sees John’s tired smile.“Yeah, that got your attention, didn’t it.Just remember that for next time, since you don’t seem to care about things like ribs puncturing your lungs, or bruised kidneys.”

Sherlock pouts, slides his eyes shut, and tries not to think about his nose, and the strange, swollen, misshapen look of it.

John is clearly angry, but it’s a mild, fond sort of thing, not the kind of pent up ferocity he had unleashed on their suspect in the alley earlier.They haven’t talked about that.Perhaps they will never talk about it, Sherlock thinks.

But they should, really.

Sherlock’s skill and value can make Lestrade very understanding, and Mycroft has the fine talent of making almost anything disappear, but best not to press his luck in either instance, and if he hadn’t said something tonight, hadn’t shouted John’s name over the din of the driving rain, and broken through the red fog of John’s fury, he isn’t sure if John would have stopped in time.

“Did they bring our suspect in?”

“Mmm?”John is staring down at his knuckles, lifting the icepack to shift it to his right hand, which isn’t nearly as bruised.

“The suspect.He was in bad shape.Did they bring him in.”

John shrugs.“Dunno.”Sherlock stares at the way John can’t meet his eyes, at the way he switches the icepack back to the worse of his two hands and cradles it against his chest.

“Are you alright?”Sherlock tries carefully.

John’s eyes snap up.“Mm?Oh.Yeah.Yeah.I’m fine.”

“You did just nearly kill a man.”Perhaps it is too blunt, too brutal, but Sherlock thinks that perhaps this is the sort of situation where plain speech is a necessity.

John nods and stares back down at his hand.“Yeah, that’s true—isn’t it.”He looks back up, and forces a smile.“But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

Sherlock looks at him, and the way his hands are just now starting to shake, at the paleness of his skin, and the bloodshot look of his eyes, and the way he is starting to curl in on himself like a wilting flower.He is the mirror opposite of the wild thing Sherlock had seen unleashed earlier in the evening.

“No.No he wasn’t really, was he.”

John smiles with a huff.“And frankly, a bloody awful bouncer, too.”

“It’s true.He was a bad bouncer.You should have seen the way he let a bunch of minors stroll into the club just because they flashed him a smile and a bit of leg.”

John chuckles softly, and then sobers.“I’m starving.Any places that deliver and are open this late?”

“There’s a Chinese place on Marylebone.Excellent dumplings.”

“Yeah?Sounds good.We should be out of here in just a bit.”

And they are.

Sherlock is weary with pain, but John’s constant warmth, and unyielding strength seem to buoy him up until they reach home.They order a takeaway, and Sherlock falls asleep eating, and wakes up several hours later tucked in on the sofa, with John snoring softly in the chair across the room.

Sherlock sits up, and winces at the pain.His ice pack has long since gone warm.He shuffles into the kitchen, and fishes another out of the freezer, gets a glass of water from the sink.A shout from John draws his attention back to the lounge.

Clearly awake, John is sitting forward in his chair, looking around himself.When his eyes light on the empty sofa, he shoots to his feet, but calms again the instant he sees Sherlock standing in the kitchen.

“What are you doing up?Should be resting.”John sounds as weary as he looks.

“I was thirsty, and my ice pack has gone warm.”

“Should have woken me up.”John rubs at his eyes, and pinches at the bridge of his nose with a yawn.“The more you rest up, the better.No dashing down alleys for six weeks or so.”

John chuckles when he sees Sherlock’s expression.“Yeah, that’s right.Six weeks for the ribs, and maybe just as long for the nose if you need surgery.Maybe be more careful next time.Thought…”his tongue curls over his bottom lip, and then retreats again.“Thought maybe I’d got there too late.”

John strolls into the kitchen, and nods toward the kitchen table.“Sit.I’ll make you some tea.”

Sherlock does as he’s told.There is something he can’t quite peg in John’s manner, tone, in the way he treads soft and careful around the kitchen, barely making a sound, making himself small and silent.It’s not usual for John, who, though not boisterous exactly, has a way of filling a room with his presence.Filling it out, not with the dramatic swoop of a coat and a rattled off string of attention-getting deductions, but with the solid rock of his presence, with the confident set of his shoulders, and the look in his eye that defies disobedience.John can make himself a paragon of security and authority in the blink of an eye.But this morning that isn’t the case.

This morning he is small.

And Sherlock doesn’t know how to approach him.Perhaps it is best to just ignore it, to say nothing.Perhaps John doesn’t realise it.Perhaps he does, but wouldn’t appreciate being forced to talk about it.

“You okay?”

Sherlock looks up at the question, and John forces a smile.“Looked a million miles away.”

“Just thinking—about the case.There will be a court case.”

“Oh yeah?”John turns back to the kettle, shuts it off, pours hot water over their tea.

“Yes.I imagine Lestrade might be able to work things out.”

“Things?”

“Mm, so you don’t have to testify.”

John’s brow knits, and then lets go.“He had it coming.”

“I imagine that is what the courts would decide as well.”

“Well, there’s a first time for fucking everything.”John seems to catch himself.He sniffs, balls a fist at his side, and then goes to the fridge.

“John…?”

“What?”Without turning around.

“I’m alright.I’ll be alright.”

John swings around, eyes red-rimmed.“And if I hadn’t got there on time?!”

Sherlock doesn’t have an answer for that.It rarely happens, him being caught unawares like that.He isn’t some swooning damsel in distress, he knows how to fight.But tonight—tonight he had been foolish, and if John hadn’t come along…Well then, it might be him inpatient at St. Mary’s, not their suspect.

John turns back to the fridge, pulls out a carton of milk, and slams the door with a little more force than is probably necessary.“It was fucking foolish.You were fucking foolish.”

And that smarts a little, even if it is true.“Oh do lay off the dramatics.There’s no harm done.Sometimes a case requires…

Sherlock presses back in his chair a little as John advances on him, suddenly, mouth a straight, tight line, the now familiar vein in his forehead pulsing, and pushes a finger under his nose.“I am not going stick around to watch you die.”

“And you won’t have to,”Sherlock responds calmly.“I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

John stands back up to his full height.“Oh, is that so.”

“Yes.”Sherlock bites back.

John just stares down at him, and shakes his head, before going to slosh milk in one cup of tea, and toss sugar into the other.He shoves it in front of Sherlock, causing some to spill over on the table, and then all but collapses into the chair across from him.“You’re a bloody menace.”

Sherlock stares into his tea.“So I’ve been told.”

“Could have been killed.”

“Doubtful.”

“Do you even care?!”

There was a time when he wouldn’t have.A time not so long ago, and it is still hard to get used to the way John has changed things, the way he makes Sherlock eager to wake up in the morning, curious to see what the day holds.

“Up until recently—no.”

John’s eyes snap up.

“Last night was…”Sherlock takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.“Last night was habit.”And when John’s brows knit with confusion, he continues.“I’m not used to taking a care for myself.I’m not used to anyone caring if I live or die.I’m not—I’m not used to having things to live for.”

John looks pained for the briefest of moments, but then he sniffs again, and sits back in his chair with a scowl.“Well you do now, so you need to fucking take care of yourself.”

Sherlock nods.“So it would seem.”

John seems satisfied by this.He shudders, and takes a sip of his tea, and just like that, all the anger seems to leech out of him, and he is small and sullen again.It makes something ache in Sherlock, a longing to gather him up, tuck him up and under his ribs, keep him safe, but he supposes none of that would be welcome at the moment, all things considered, and so he keeps his silence.

The whole affair has been instructive if nothing else.John has a fierce need and desire to protect, but on some level he resents having to.And John is afraid of losing him.There is a kind of comfort in that, in knowing that he is not alone in his regard, that when it comes down to it, in a moment of danger, when running off nothing but pure adrenaline, John’s instinct is to kill rather than let Sherlock come to harm.And Sherlock would do the same for John, of course he would, but it is a new and novel feeling to be so regarded.

But then there is the way John shrinks afterward, the quiet, pale man sitting across from him, who looks so strangely and incredibly young, who is coiled tight, and hyper aware, and…

Oh.

Sherlock sets his tea down.“It’s still very early.Should we go to bed, do you think?”

John glances up, distracted, his turn to be a million miles away.“Mm?”

“Bed.Would you like to go to bed.”

“Not sure I could sleep.Bit wired.”

“Then come and keep me company.”

John smiles, weak and weary.“Not going to be able to do any of that for awhile, not with your ribs the way they are.”

“Then come and keep me company.”Sherlock repeats, hoping John will understand, that it is his presence he craves more than anything, hopes that John won’t guess the real reason for the request, that it is Sherlock’s presence John needs now, just the sound of his breath, and the warmth of his body, and the assurance that he is alive, and well, and safe.

John sighs and stares down into his mug.“Yeah?Sure.Okay.”

* * *

 

John sleeps.

Sherlock watches him.He watches his eyes roll beneath his lids, and the way his hands ball into fists even in his sleep.He dreams of the war sometimes, but not always.And Sherlock thinks he understands a little better now.

John can be so many things—fierce and tender, wild and contained, nurturing and violent.He is a million contradictions at once.But mostly he is tired.

All these things, always battling within him, and him always terrified to see which of them might gain dominance.Always vigilant, always watching.Ready to heal.Ready to protect.Ready to do all the things that no one ever did for him.

Sherlock vows to keep his promise, to take more care, no matter how much it goes against his natural inclinations and instincts.John is weary enough just existing, he doesn’t need the added stress and strain of Sherlock’s mad dashes into the unknown. 

John clearly likes the cases, in general, but Sherlock thinks he is more than capable of making those little outings safe without the appearance of being too much so.Sanitised adventures, that’s what John needs at the moment, and Sherlock thinks he can attract enough variety of work to ensure John gets it.

He gazes over at John’s lax mouth, at cheeks flushed slightly pink in sleep, and at limbs that tremble in small intervals, and wonders at the sheer force of everything he feels for him, and the fact that he is sitting here contemplating catering his work just to suit John’s needs.

Oh, he is in love.

Horribly, madly, deeply.

He’s in love, and it’s terrifying and wonderful all at once.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **New Tags:** #First Time Blow Jobs, #Blow Jobs
> 
>  **Author's Note:** Hey all, hope you enjoy this chapter. Not sure how many of you know, but I've been building a house over the last year, and it's finally done, so I'm moving! Yay! However, I'm moving next weekend, so... That means there will be no new chapter next weekend (June 2nd) and likely also no new chapter the following weekend (June 9th) as well, as we will be still working on setting up house. 
> 
> So, next new chapter will be on Father's Day (June 16th).
> 
> Thank-you for your patience while I'm transitioning, and I'll see you then!

John has changed.

“Oh don’t get up.”He’s coming up the stairs with some bags of shopping.He sounds irritated and short.The passive-aggressive digs have been increasing over the past month or so.Sherlock observes it all with fascination, trying to unravel the story it is telling.

Ever since the night in the alley John has been like this, alternating between attentive nurture and a sort of begrudging annoyance that Sherlock exists at all.There is something in the way John looks at him, in guarded moments, ones where he isn’t aware that Sherlock can see him, that makes Sherlock think that John’s feelings toward him haven’t changed all that much, but in many ways it appears that John’s affections are already cooling.

It’s tempting to feel as though it’s his fault.Sherlock knows it isn’t, not entirely, but years of attempted friendships going cold overnight have made his senses overly keen to even just the slightest whiff of annoyance and anger.Despite his resolve to remain impassive to the change he can feel something shifting between them, and it is affecting him more than he would like.

So as John huffs, and glares, and slams cabinets in the kitchen, Sherlock chooses to ignore him.This results in even more huffing and slamming, but Sherlock simply focuses his attention on the book in his lap.He refuses to be drawn into some emotion-fuelled conflict that can’t end in anything good.

When John is finished putting the shopping away he strolls into the lounge, and flops into the red chair by the hearth he has claimed as his own.He groans a little, and rubs at his thigh, a psychosomatic pain which is yet another thing that has made an appearance since their last case.

Sherlock’s ribs have been healing well, and his nose did require surgery, but that had gone well too, and the surgeon seems to think he will walk away from the whole thing with very little to show for the whole unfortunate adventure. 

If only hearts and relationships healed so easily…

Sherlock peeks up from from his book and finds John staring.

“You know, you just sit there all day.You could help me now and again.”

“Do you want help?”

“Would be nice, yeah.”

“All you needed to do was ask.What would you like me to do?”

John scowls.“Not leaving all the domestic chores for me or Mrs. Hudson might be a start.”

“Would you like me to hire someone?”

“What?No.I’m just asking you to pitch in.Or is doing the washing up too common for someone posh as you?”

Sherlock sits back and stares until John has to look away.

Honeymoon phase officially over, then…

“I prefer to focus my energies in other directions.I understand that a neat, clean environment may be important to you, and how having the full weight of the tidying responsibilities fall on your shoulders alone, might be—frustrating.My offer to hire someone seemed like a logical solution that would satisfy us both.”

John huffs and shakes his head wryly, but he doesn’t say anything more.

“Why do I get the impression you’ve decided you no longer like me?”

John’s head snaps up at that.“What?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, exhales. _On we go then…_

“Ever since the case you’ve been—different.The last week or so I’ve begun to wonder if you are simply tolerating me.Living with someone has a way of revealing their true nature.If I’ve turned out to be a disappointment, that is understandable, but I would prefer if you would…”

“No.”John swallows tightly.“Jesus, no.Sherlock, that’s not…”He looks up from his lap.“That’s not it at all.”He swallows again.“I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?”

He sees the question catch John unawares.His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, as though he’s hoping the right words will just spill out, but in the end he closes it again without saying anything.

“I _have_ apologised for what happened,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Yeah, I know.”

“It has been six weeks, and I have promised to endeavour to be more careful in the future.I realise that I haven’t had opportunity to prove my resolve in that, but none-the-less, I do feel it somewhat early to write me off entirely.”

“I’m not writing you off, but…Jesus!Can you even begin to understand what that was like for me to come around that corner, and see you on the pavement, to see that bloke beating the shit out of you, and to wonder if I’d got there too late.Can you imagine?Do you get that?”

John shakes his head.“Christ, it’s like you aren’t even human, sometimes.”

This smarts more than anything else.“Unfair.”He knows he sounds small, and petulant, and Sherlock is rather angry at himself for it.

John sighs, and lets his eyes slide shut, pinching at his brow.“Sorry.Sorry, I just…This is more about me than you, okay.And I realise that just sounds like an excuse, but…”

“Yes.It does sound like an excuse.”

John’s eyes pop open, and he sniffs, a sign Sherlock has learned means he’s angry ( _yet again_ ).But he seems to rein himself in.“I don’t understand what you want from me.”

“I want you to tell me why you, who are a soldier, who has seen men be injured, seen men die, presumably men you valued as friends, why you have been so horribly affected by one case gone wrong?Why you have been affected to the point that you are considering withdrawing your affections…”John opens his mouth as though to object, but Sherlock just talks over him.“Are beginning to do things to undermine this thing between us, and…”

“I’m not the one who ran off, half cocked, like a bloody idiot!I’m not the one who egged the bloke on with all those bloody deductions and then dashed off after him!What the fuck did you think would happen, mm?Did you think he’d be able to let that slide?A bloke like him?Did you for one minute think he wouldn’t feel the need to stand up, to prove himself a man when given half the chance?!” 

John looks surprised even as the words are coming out of his mouth.But he soldiers on once he’s started, changing tack now.“In the army you don’t do something without an order.You don’t run off on your own, and leave the rest of your men behind.You work as a team.You stick together.That’s what protects you.Each other.It’s together or not at all.”

Sherlock cocks a brow. “Are you suggesting I should take orders from you?”

John blinks, his brows knitting for a moment, tongue darting out to moisten his lips before he speaks.“No.No.What I’m saying is that you should use some bloody common sense.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, sits up a little taller.“I believe you still haven’t told me the whole of things, but perhaps it doesn’t matter.Do you want to continue on with this relationship as we currently have it arranged, or is this thing I’ve done too egregious to make that possible?

He sees John shrink, and wonders at it. “‘Course I do.Unless…”

“Unless, what?”

“Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Some of the tension seems to leech from John’s body at that, and Sherlock feels a wave of relief wash over him.

John’s hands are shaking.He balls them into fists, squeezes, releases.Sherlock thinks that perhaps he had best lighten the mood.

“Does this qualify as our first row, do you think?” 

And when John’s eyes snap up to his, he smiles, just a little, so his intent will be clear.John smiles back before his eyes drop to his lap again.“Suppose so.”

“I feel we handled it relatively well.”

John huffs softly, and shakes his head.

“What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”Sherlock can hear the defensiveness in his own tone.

“No, no.Nothing like that,” John hurries to assure him.“I’ve just—never been with anyone like this before.”

“Like what?”

John shrugs.“Like—talking about things.”

_Oh._

“Not good?”

John looks up from his lap.“What?Oh.No, no.It’s—fine.It’s good.Just—different.”

“I see.”

“And you’re right, for what it’s worth.”John looks up, sees Sherlock waiting intently for him to continue, and then takes a deep breath and carries on.“I didn’t tell you all the reasons why I got so worked up over all this.But I’m not sure I even know myself, so I’m not trying to…” 

He takes another breath, lets it out slowly.“That therapist I mentioned.Saw her more when I first got back from Afghanistan, not so much these days.Maybe I—maybe I should more, I don’t know.But she said I have trust issues.”

“Do you?”

John glances up, shrugs.“Dunno.Maybe.Yeah, maybe.But I don’t think that’s really the whole of it, not in this case.I do need to know I can trust you, trust you not to put yourself willingly in harm’s way.‘Least not like that, not the way you did that night, not where you’re out of my reach and I’m helpless to…”

Sherlock can see the weight of that one word settle into John’s bones: _helpless_. 

John shudders a little, and then sniffs, and sits up a little straighter.“What I said before, about the army—that’s what I need from you.I need you to understand ‘no man left behind’, and that includes yourself, okay.That includes not putting yourself in positions where you go off half-cocked, and get yourself into shit where I can’t help.”

Sherlock nods.“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.Together or not at all.”

John nods once, a small, tight jerk of the head, but he seems satisfied.He slouches back in his chair a little, and looks around the room at nothing in particular.After a moment his eyes return to Sherlock.“How are your ribs?”

Sherlock stares quizzically at the sudden change of topic.“My ribs?”

“Mm.”

“Healing well.Rather back to normal, I think.”

John looks up, nods.“Good.That’s good.”There is clearly more he isn’t saying. 

“But…?”

“Mm?”

“I’m asking why you’re asking.”

“Can’t I ask?”

“Of course.But why?”

John sighs as though horribly put upon, eyes rolling to the ceiling, and shifts a little in his seat.“Maybe, I miss you.”

“Miss me?”Sherlock can’t hold back the grin that twitches at the corner of his lips.

“Miss it.”

“It?”

John sighs again.“Us.Together.”He inclines his head in the direction of the bedroom, and Sherlock smiles in earnest, before tamping it down.

“Ahhh…”

“Yeah.”

“So—some of this has been—frustration?”

John shrugs, but his cheeks take on some colour.“Possibly.Probably.”He decides.

“And what would you prescribe, then?”

“Mm?”

“Doctor heal thyself.”Sherlock winks just to be sure John understands him, and is rewarded with a smile, the kind that lights up John’s whole face, that sparkles in his eyes and ends in a soft huff of amusement.

“Been doing a lot of that the last few weeks, actually.Was hoping maybe you’d have some better ideas.”

Sherlock chuckles.“I do.”

John’s eyes lift to his, hopeful, hungry, and still just a little sad.

“Go lock the doors to the stairs, and then come here.”

He sees the order catch John by surprise, but still—he moves to obey immediately, locking the door in the kitchen, and then in the lounge.When he returns, he stops beside his chair, hovering, unsure, waiting, Sherlock realises, for his next order.

“Come here.”Sherlock nods toward his lap.“It’s a risk, and he knows it.A slight shift in their dynamic, something new.It’s possible John might not like it, making himself so vulnerable.Sherlock can feel the hesitation in him.“It’s not an order—unless you want it to be,” he offers gently.

And to Sherlock’s great surprise, John strides forward and straddles Sherlock’s knees, hovering over him for a moment, staring down at him.He reaches out and pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, knots his hand into a fist, and Sherlock lets his eyes slide shut, revels in the sensation, grounding and arousing all at once.

John tugs slow and firm, and then lets go, and crawls into Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock’s eyes pop open as John settles atop his thighs, his knees pressing against Sherlock’s hips, hands braced against the chair back, either side of Sherlock’s head.

“Hi.”John whispers it, and for some reason that one word settles in Sherlock’s heart like a balm, soothing all the feelings he couldn’t quite name, but which had been plaguing him ever since everything had gone wrong.

“Hello,” he whispers back, slides his hands up John’s thighs, around his hips, pulls him in a little closer. 

John’s lips spread into a smile, and Sherlock remembers how much he loves it, has missed it, thinks about how much he wishes John would kiss that careful, gentle joy into his mouth.

“Kiss me.”

John obliges without hesitation, his body melting against Sherlock’s as though he had only been waiting for the word, waiting for permission, maybe.It’s hard for John—apologising.Something else Sherlock has learned about him the last few weeks.And it’s not so much because he doesn’t feel remorse, but more because he hates himself so profoundly he doesn’t believe he deserves forgiveness, so why dare to ask.

But this kiss feels like an apology, and Sherlock offers forgiveness with every press of lips and every glide of tongue, with the way he holds John against his body like a precious, necessary thing, strokes the tense plane of his back with a careful tenderness that he can feel John melt into and pull away from in equal measure.

It would be easier for John if Sherlock took him roughly, he thinks.More in keeping with the familiar, with what he feels he deserves.Tenderness is difficult for him now that he has opened himself, and laid himself open, so raw and exposed, to Sherlock’s regard.He craves and resists it with equal fervour. 

The lack of success John experienced with his cuddle business seems to make more sense the longer Sherlock knows him.John wears masks the same as Sherlock does.He does a passing job of appearing common, and mild, but under the surface he is a raging and tumultuous sea, and he can’t make himself vulnerable, not really, and when he does, in those rare moments that he does, he unravels so swiftly…Even now he’s beginning to tremble in Sherlock’s arms, and Sherlock thinks he knows what he needs.Today is not the day to drag things out, not when John is like this, not when their apologies and mutual vulnerability is so fresh.

Sherlock breaks their kiss, dips down, and sucks hard at the crook of John’s neck, feels a frisson of arousal crackle over his skin at the sound of John’s strangled moan.It won’t take long, and John needs this.He needs the release, because even if he had been handling things on his own these last few weeks, as he suggested, it’s likely his anger had him tied up in knots enough that he’d not let himself go.Not really.Not fully.Always holding back, even if subconsciously.Punishing, always punishing himself for wanting, for feeling, for being human.It’s something Sherlock can empathise with, and he’s reminded again how lucky he has been to find this man, to be wanted by him, needed by him, loved and known by him.

Sherlock can hear the leather of his chair creak, as John fists the cushion behind Sherlock’s head.He presses in, his body burning hot against Sherlock’s even through the many layers of their clothes.His cock is a hard, twitching, bulge in the front of his trousers, and Sherlock wants to see him come undone.

It won’t take long.

Sherlock moans against John’s neck, and feels John shudder, and thrust against his belly.His head dips in, his breath hot and frantic against Sherlock’s temple, pants and gasps that occasionally devolve into desperate whimpers, as he struggles to find the friction he needs in their current position.It’s an award angle like this, and it’s hard for John to get any purchase.Sherlock slides down a little, trying to give him something to grind against, but it’s still not quite right, and so finally with a growl of frustration, he scoops John under the arse, and stands up.

John flails for a brief moment, and then grabs onto Sherlock’s shoulders to right himself, his face a confused, florid thing of beauty.“What are you doing?”

“Taking us somewhere more comfortable.”

“Yeah?Well…”John’s cheeks go redder still.“Think I can probably get there on my own two feet.”

“Mmm.Possibly.”Sherlock gives John’s arse a firm squeeze, and watches his lips part.“But where would be the fun in that.”

“Put me down.”

Sherlock grins.

“Sherlock…”

“Mm?”

“Put me…”Sherlock gives his arse another squeeze, and John’s breath hitches.“Christ, just—get us wherever it is we’re going, then.”

Sherlock chuckles, and heads for the bedroom.He sits down the edge of the bed the second they get there, and lets John push him back down against the mattress, and drown him in a flood of messy, desperate kisses while he grinds relentlessly against him.John is like a small, barely contained hurricane of desire, and it’s wonderful.

When John comes his thighs clamp hard either side of Sherlock’s hips, and he bites down onto the meaty bit ofSherlock’s shoulder with a drawn out moan of relief.The pain sends an unexpected jolt of pleasure straight to Sherlock’s core, and he’s surprised to discover he’s hard as well.

John is a dead weight atop of him, heavy, grounding, panting against the bruise he’d just marked into Sherlock’s flesh, and there’s something about the warm, delicious weight of him, that stirs the pool of pleasure building in Sherlock’s belly, makes it heat, and build, and throb, until he feels heady with the steady, aching tension.He lies very still, and plays with it.It’s easy with John heavy and sedate with post-coital languor. 

Sherlock can simply drift, can let his mind wander to thoughts of all the potential; lazy afternoons, naked, tangled with one another under the sheets.Adrenaline-fuelled evenings of frantic rutting against the wall of the hall, not even able to make it up the stairs; slow, wet, lazy frotting in the shower.All fantasies, things Sherlock isn’t even sure if he would like in reality, but the thought of which keep the embers of his desire glowing hot, flickering up now and again as Sherlock experimentally flexes his pubococcygeus, feels his cock twitch in response, and John stir.

Sherlock presses his lips to the top of John’s head.“Never mind that,” he whispers.

“You sure?”John sounds drunk, and half asleep.

“Mm.”

John settles again, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him and drifts.He slips between awake and asleep, dreams and reality mingling.In his mind, John kisses him, reaches down to palm him through his trousers, murmurs unintelligible things in his ear, that set Sherlock alight all the same.When he slips back into a clearer state of consciousness it is only John’s weight, the rhythmic fall and rise of his breathing, the warm press of his now flaccid cock against Sherlock’s.

In dreams John’s mouth anoints every inch of him, lighting small fires over the landscape of his body.They burn with an orange flame, warm, but not painful.They set every cell to vibrating until he is high off the sensation, awash in pleasure, drunk on it, and all he can do is murmur John’s name.

“Shh…”John’s breath against his lips.

“John?”

“Shh…I’m here.I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s eyes drift open to John propped up on his elbows, staring down at him.“Hello.”

John smiles.“Hey.Think you were dreaming.You okay.”

“Mm.”Sherlock’s cock punctuates his reply with a twitch, and John grins.

“You want me to help you take care of that?”

And Sherlock doesn’t know, not really.“I was dreaming of you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm.You were kissing fire into my skin.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

John leans down and traces his nose along Sherlock’s cheekbone, until he reaches his temple and presses a kiss there.“Could do,” he whispers in his ear.

“Stay just like this.”

“Hm?”John pulls back and stares down at him, clearly confused.

“Stay still, atop me, like this.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm, I want to try something.Just—look at me.”

“Okay.”And John is back to whispering in that soft, awed way he has, that makes Sherlock feel like this thing they are building together is something like church to him, an altar he can worship at that feels the way he’d always felt religion should feel, and never did.

John holds his gaze, and Sherlock is touched by the gesture.It’s not easy for him, and yet he does it, he lets Sherlock look his fill.Let’s Sherlock stare at him, into him, through him.Let’s Sherlock see everything.

Sherlock settles his hands atop John’s arse, kneads at him like a cat, arches his hips upward to realign his spine, and settles into the mattress again.He thinks about John naked with him, like this, lets John see it.He thinks about their bodies slick with sweat, sliding and clapping together, thinks of John pressing Sherlock’s legs back, stroking the backs of his thighs, peppering them with kisses, burying his nose in Sherlock’s perineum and breathing deep.

Sherlock’s breath catches at that.He feels blood surge to his cock. 

Above him John’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything.He only watches, and stays still, just as Sherlock had asked.

“If you could do anything to me, anything at all, and I would be amenable, and there would be no guilt, no shame, what would you do?”

“What?”

“Tell me, John.Tell me.I want to picture it.It’s very helpful to me.”

John huffs.“How?”

“Well,” Sherlock smiles, and slides a hand up John’s back and brings it to rest at his nape.“It’s best to be prepared.Like an athlete, I rather like to walk through it a few times in my head before game day.”

John grins, his head dropping.Sherlock can feel him shake with a chuckle.“So you want fantasy fodder.”

“If you prefer.But also, I’d like to see if I could come, just from you telling me.”

John’s head snaps up, and his face does a million things before settling into a smirk that seems to suggest he is not at all averse to the idea.

“Right.”

“Mm.”

John sobers a little.“I don’t think you…”

“What?”

“I don’t think you want to know all the things I want to do to you.”

“Tell me whatever you feel comfortable telling me.But do remember we’re both adults.Let’s not sanitise things too much.”

John huffs out another laugh.“Right.Yeah.Okay.Though, fair warning, I’m a bit rusty.Haven’t been asked to talk dirty in ages.”

“I’m not asking you to talk dirty, I’m simply asking you to be as descriptive as possible.”

John kisses him, and it catches him completely off guard.When John pulls away again, he’s grinning.

Sherlock smiles back.“What?”

“You.Just…”John’s eyes do something Sherlock doesn’t understand.It’s soft, and a little sad.“Just love you.”It’s barely a whisper, and it’s the first time John has actually said the words.Sherlock is struck speechless, and then John is kissing him again, with a depth, and a tenderness he never has before, and Sherlock forgets everything else for a long time.There is only their mingled breath, and synchronised heartbeats, only the salt tang of John’s tears (or are they his?) smeared between their lips, and the soft susurrus of hands on fabric, tangled his hair, whispering over skin.

“Want you out of all this,” John murmurs against his lips at last.Pushing himself up, he sits back on Sherlock’s thighs and starts to unbutton his shirt, and Sherlock lets him, relishes in the sensation of John laying him bare.John unwraps him slowly, the way you might unwrap a gift you have been wanting for ages, but never thought you would receive, the sort that almost seems too precious to rush.Sherlock helps by shrugging out of his shirt when it is undone, and then John starts on the flies to his trousers. 

“Lift your hips for me.”

And Sherlock does, and lets John divest him of his trousers and pants too.And John stands at the edge of the bed and stares down at him, bare, erection jutting out, flushed and aching in the cool air of the room.

John’s tongue glides out to moisten his lips.“Slide up for me.”

And when Sherlock just blinks up at him in curiosity, John just grins, and shakes his head, and then reaches down to grab Sherlock by the hips and slide him where he wants him.“Sit up, okay.”

Sherlock does.But it isn’t until John sinks to his knees between Sherlocks’ legs, runs his hands over his thighs and presses a kiss to the inside of his knee that Sherlock realises what his intention is.

“John.”

John’s eyes drift up to his.

“You don’t have to do this.”

A wrinkle forms between John’s brows.“You don’t want it?”

“No, I just—I don’t want you to feel that you have to.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”The whisper again, and how could Sherlock ever say no to that.

He swallows tightly, quelling the fluttering moths of anxiety flitting about his belly.It’s always so easy in a fantasy, but quite another thing like this, with John real, and breathing, and looking at him like that.“Alright.”

“Okay.”John whispers.“I’ll ease you into it, and you can pinch me if you want me to stop, okay.”

Sherlock nods.His erection is flagging.It’s somewhat embarrassing, but John doesn’t seem to mind.He dips down and kisses the inside of Sherlock’s knee again, stares up at him from beneath long, thick lashes, and Sherlock thinks he is beautiful.

“Close your eyes.”

Sherlock does.

“This is what I’ve dreamed of doing,” John murmurs and presses another kiss a little higher up the inside of his thigh.“I’ve laid up nights thinking about it.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat, and wonders at it.“Have you?”

“Oh yeah.”He can hear the smile in John’s voice, but not like he is laughing a Sherlock, no, not that, more like there is joy in the remembrance. 

“All these weeks, asleep beside you in the dark, listening to you breathing, imagining what it would be like to wake you like this.”John presses another kiss to the inside of the opposite thigh.

“Loved the thought of you coming awake half hard.”Another kiss, higher still.“But then I thought you might not like it.Was hard to know, so…”Kiss.Kiss.Another kiss.

“Thought I should ask.Didn’t know how.Didn’t know how to say any of the things that needed saying.But we’ve said them now, so here we are…”

Sherlock can feel John’s breath, warm and moist against his scrotum.He stops breathing.

“You okay?”

He forces his eyes open, forces himself to look back down at John knelt between his legs, and there is something about it, about the sight of John’s cheek resting against the inside of his thigh, the sight of his mouth hovering so close to the base of Sherlock’s cock that makes a fresh surge of arousal race through his veins.

John grins as his cock twitches and fills so close to his face.“Okay, then.”

And then John kisses him.There.Presses his lips to the base of his cock, his eyes sliding shut, his breath escaping through his nose to waft against Sherlock’s shaft, and Sherlock’s breath hitches, his head goes light, his eyes prick, and he lets out a moan so loud it surprises even him.

John smiles, eyes still shut, and then presses another kiss there, open mouthed, and wet, eyes sliding open to look up and lock with Sherlock’s, and Sherlock can’t look away, won’t look away for anything, because—it’s John.

He can feel John’s tongue against his skin.John breathes deep and moans, himself, pulls back a little.“Jesus fucking Christ you taste good.”

It’s profane, and beautiful.And then John’s tongue is on him again, a long, slow, wet glide from root to tip, a deep-throated moan as he takes him in, takes him as deep as he can, doing something with his tongue on the underside of Sherlock’s prick that makes his toes curl, and his head go light.

“John!”

He feels John slide off and immediately regrets his lack of self-control.“Okay?”

“Don’t stop.Don’t…”

And John takes him into his mouth once again.

It’s a fog after that.He had intended to take copious mental notes the first time they did this, to gather data, to remember what he liked and didn’t like for future, to determine how John might like to be touched himself, but his mind won’t seem to work at all.All there is is the tension building in his belly, the white hot, curling ache that builds and builds as John’s mouth works a kind of magic around him.

He feels detached from himself, as he falls back on his elbows and arches his hips up off the mattress, driving himself much deeper down John’s throat than he’d intended.He feels John’s hand on his hip, easing him back down, a second hand on his other hip, pressing him into the mattress. 

But John doesn’t stop, instead, once Sherlock has settled, he wraps a hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, and begins to add long pulls to the bobbing of his head, and the swirling of his tongue, and the building suction he adds as he pulls almost all the way off, only to plunge back down again.

His mouth is watering.He’s so wet Sherlock can feel saliva dripping down the length of his shaft, and wonders how John is still breathing, is still making the sounds he is making against Sherlock’s skin, the sounds Sherlock can feel in his body, vibrating, making his cells sing.

He reaches down to touch John’s hair, not to pull, not even to guide him, just to touch, one other point of contact, fingers tangled in the short silver-gold strands.Pads of his fingers rubbing against John’s scalp.

John moans again, and Sherlock feels it everywhere, falls back on the mattress and flings his arm over his eyes.His face feels hot.“John…”He whispers it this time, not wanting John to get the wrong idea and stop again, because the vibrating tension, the heat is curling tighter now, and he knows he’s close, and he wants it, he realises.He wants to come.He wants to come in the tight, wet heat of John’s mouth. 

His cheeks flare hotter.

“John.John, I—I’m…”

He does pull at John’s hair now, as he feels his balls pull up, and the thing that had been building in him reach its zenith.

“I’m…”

But John just reaches up and takes his hand, meshes their fingers and keeps doing what he’s been doing until Sherlock can’t fight it anymore, arches his hips up off the bed with a shout, and spills into John’s mouth, pulse after pulse, as the pleasure surges through him, taking his breath away, whiting out his brain.

And when he finally comes back to himself, when his brain finally comes back online, the first thing that he thinks, is _John_.

He lifts his head, stares down the length of his own body and sees John smiling up at him, mouth pink and swollen, hair askew, cheek flushed, as he sits back on his heels.“Have new appreciation for every girl who ever swallowed.”He grins, and Sherlock chuckles and falls back against the mattress.

“Yes, I imagine it’s an acquired taste.”

John’s laughter joins his own, and then he is crawling up on the bed to lie beside him, and Sherlock rolls his head to the side, stares at him, just stares for the longest time, hoping that John can read his mind, can see how much this has meant to him.

“Are you alright?”He finally asks.

John nods.“Are you?”

“Oh yes.”

And John smiles, clearly pleased by that.

“John.”

“Mm?”

“For future reference, you don’t have to—swallow it.It’s not a requirement.”

“Yeah.I know.I just know I like it, so…”

“Was it quite awful?”

John grins and stares up at the ceiling.“A bit, maybe.”He chuckles, and then turns back to Sherlock, rolls on his side and slings an arm around his waist.“Would do it again, though.”

“Would you?”

“If you wanted me to.”

Sherlock rolls onto his side, reaches up to smooth the mess he’d made of John’s hair.“We’ll see.”And when John’s eyes slide shut at the touch.“I love you.”

John’s eyes open again.“Love you too.”His eyes search Sherlock’s.“Listen, I’m sorry about everything the last few weeks.I don’t do well when I feel like I can’t help.Felt that way a lot.Felt like you didn’t want my help, maybe.”

“I’ll always want your help, John.More than that, I—I do believe I need it.I very much hope you’ll stay.”

“Of course I will.”

“Good.And if you wanted to do this again sometime—I would not be averse.”

John’s lips spread into a smile.“Was good then?”

“Good is a rather inadequate descriptor.”

“Oh yeah?So what would be better?Wonderful?Brilliant?Fantastic?‘Best blowjob I ever had, John.Please let’s do it again, John, just as soon as I recover?’”

Sherlock smiles.“Something like that.”

John stretches up, presses his face into Sherlock’s neck, presses a kiss to the line of his jaw.“Think that can probably be arranged.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, All, for your patience. This is rather short, but a transitional chapter, we're ramping up to the climax and toward the end now. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, a big thanks to @SherlockSister1 for the Brit-picking, and, as always, to @astudyinsnoggy for the SPaG beta and general cheerleading.

The day before had been a revelation.

They will be alright, Sherlock thinks.They can do this.They’ve faced down another hurdle and come out on top.It’s happened and they’ve dealt with it.They can deal with it again.

Sherlock is lying in bed.He stretches and sits up.By the light outside he estimates it to be around 10:00.John will have been up for hours.He’ll be reading or pottering and grumbling about the kitchen.Perhaps he’s cooked something or made tea. 

Sherlock swings his legs over the side of the bed and rubs a hand over his face.Maybe if he plays his cards right he might be able to persuade him to come back to bed.They could spend the afternoon discovering one another anew.There are times when Sherlock thinks there may be no end to the new things he might like to try, something which has surprised him, given the complete dearth of interest he’d had before John came along.

Disappointingly, the kitchen is empty when Sherlock finally manages to shuffle out in a pair of ratty pyjama’s and a dressing gown hastily tossed over his shoulders.There is a small slip of paper sitting on the table.Sherlock recognises John’s neat block text from all the way across the room.He strides over and snatches it up.

GONE DOWN TO SPEEDY’S TO GET US BREAKFAST.

BE BACK IN A TICK. 

Mmm.Lovely.

John is like this, he’s learning.Ridiculously domestic and romantic after sex.Sherlock loves it.Who could possibly object to being spoiled, after all? 

The day’s paper is already open on the table.Sherlock pulls out the main section and peruses the headlines.A couple of predictable murders, a cabinet reshuffle, something about the economy going to hell in a hand cart.Boring.He sighs and plops down in the chair, gently worrying John’s note between his fingers.

There is sun streaming in the kitchen’s single window.It’s a fine day.Perhaps they should go to the park.Have a picnic.Feed the ducks.

Sherlock chastises himself for a lovesick fool.He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so blissfully happy.

Fishing his mobile out of the pocket of his dressing gown, he thumbs it open and shoots John a text.

 

> STARVING!
> 
> Hurry up.

He waits.

Nothing.

 

> Bring me the chocolate croissant.

Nothing.

 

> Please.

He frowns down at his phone.

_Rude._

There’s nothing for it then, he’ll have to go down.

He dresses hurriedly, takes a moment to try and pat his hair into some semblance of order, gives up, and jogs down the stairs, looking for all the world like a tardy uni student. 

Speedy’s isn’t ridiculously busy.It’s late in the morning, after all, the dead time between breakfast and lunch.John is nowhere to be seen.

When he returns to the flat, Mrs. Hudson is just exiting with a bulging bin bag in her hand.“Oh Sherlock, I thought you’d gone out.”

“No.”

“Will John be back in time for tea, do you think?I’m making a nice roast beef.”

“I’m—not sure.Thought he’d dropped down to the cafe, but…”

“Oh, I think he might have gone to the shops, actually.I saw him getting into a cab with someone when I was down chatting with Mr. Chatterjee.Thought it was you.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, a few hours ago, now.”

Sherlock’s fingers curl around his phone.

“Is everything alright, Dear?”

“He was with someone?”

“Mm.They were already in the cab, but they had dark hair, and so I just assumed…”

“Ah.Yes.Yes, that’s—fine.It’s…”Sherlock pushes past her and dashes out onto the street, stops at the kerb, glancing this way and that.Stupid.There’s nothing to see.It’s not as though John is suddenly going to materialise.He’s panicking.He’s panicking for no reason at all.

He takes a deep breath, turns back toward the flat.

He’ll wait.Likely Mrs. Hudson is right, he’s just gone to the shops.Perhaps he shared a cab with a dark-haired stranger.Likely it’s busy.Likely he’s just not minding his phone.

He tries not to think about friendships gone sour over things he never understood, of apologies that had really been good-byes, of waking to cold shoulders, and an empty dorm room, and kindnesses turned to cruelty in the blink of an eye.

The afternoon stretches out into an agonising monotony of waiting.

Sherlock does his best to spread out his texts, utilises every tool at his disposal to try not to descend into a full-on meltdown every time no response comes.He tells himself this isn’t John.John, his John, wouldn’t just walk out, wouldn’t just leave.He said he was going to get breakfast.He was going to get breakfast.If he was waylaid, there must be a reason.He—he could be in trouble.  He could need help.

At 17:00 Sherlock gives in to panic.

He eyes the cupboard where he is sure he still has a small stash of morphine tucked in the back.Just a little.Just something to take the edge off.He’ll be useless otherwise.But then he thinks of John.He thinks of what he would say, of the worry, of the disapproval if he were there.

He calls his brother instead.

Mycroft sighs the moment he picks up.“If this is about John Watson, we’re handling it.”

Sherlock’s head goes light.He sways a little and then plops down into John’s chair by the hearth.“Handling what, exactly?”

There is a long pause on the other end of the line, Mycroft no doubt deciding if he will let Sherlock in on the details or continue to play God, Mummy, and keeper.

Sherlock hears him suck in a sharp breath.“CCTV cameras captured him getting into a cab with Irena Adler at 7:00 this morning.The cab headed in the direction of Brixton, but then disappeared off our radar.”

“Disappeared?What do you mean disappeared?”Sherlock snaps.

“I mean vanished between one camera point and another.We are currently looking into whether the feed was manipulated.I have people on it.In the meantime you will stay where you are and keep out of it.”

Sherlock leans back in the chair, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to come undone.“If you think,” he begins with a sort of tight, unsteady calm, “that I am going to just sit here, and do nothing, while you…”

“That is precisely what you are going to do, and I’m sending Gregory over to ensure it.”

“Lestrade?Why?”

“You know why, Sherlock.”

“I’m fine.”

“He’ll be there in a few minutes.Don’t do anything rash.”

The line clicks dead, and Sherlock stares down at his phone and then hurls it across the room.

He gets up, considers going out, gets halfway to the door and realises he doesn’t know where he would go, where he would even start looking.He stops, goes over to the desk, opens his laptop, closes it again, heads for the door.

By the time Lestrade gets there, he has been pacing steadily for at least ten minutes. 

“Oh, get out!”He snaps at the sight of the man standing in the door with his brows knit, and hands stuffed in his pocket.

“You okay?”

“What does it look like!!”

Lestrade doesn’t move.He leans against the door frame and watches Sherlock pace, until the sensation of eyes on him makes Sherlock want to crawl out of his own skin, and he stops dead with a growl, fists his hair in his hands and pulls hard.

“Mycroft’s on it, Sherlock.Sherlock?Sherlock, sit down.”

And Sherlock is sitting without knowing how.

“Just breathe, okay.Just—we’ll fix it.Together.I promise.For now, just breathe.”

Sherlock can feel the edge of his anxiety soften and shift.It’s always been this way with Greg, from the first night they met in an alley outside a club in Vauxhall, and Greg had talked Sherlock down from a bad trip, and then not even questioned it when Sherlock had leapt into deducing the cause of death on the corpse the Met had just fished out of the nearest skip.

Much as Sherlock hates that Greg is here at his brother’s urging, he _is_ glad he’s there, because on some level he suspects that he will help to the best of his ability, that he realises what John is, what he means, and that if no one else will, at least he will stop at nothing to bring him home.

“What do you know?’’Sherlock whispers from behind the cage of his fingers.

“Just what your brother told me, what we’ve been able to glean from the CCTV.Not much.But we’re working on it.I promise you.”

Sherlock shakes his head and balls his fringe up in his fists.“You won’t find anything.This is some nonsense of Mycroft’s.”

He feels a hand come to rest on his back, between his shoulder blades.It doesn’t move, just stays there, a warm weight.He resists the urge to fling it off, because there is a kind of comfort in it, really.Not so much in the touch itself, but in Lestrade’s solidity.He’s always been an anchor, a rock you can rely on—calm, steady, even.

“He’s a handful, I get that.But he’s not going to just leave John to the wolves.He’s got every available man on this, I know that for a fact.”

“He was just going down to get us breakfast.”Sherlock’s voice breaks, and he can’t even be bothered to care.He feels wrung out, frayed around the edges, and his mind is a buzzing, muddled mess precisely when he needs it to be its most exacting and precise.

“John was a soldier, remember.Whatever’s happened, he knows how to conduct himself, and I saw the way he looked at you, Sherlock.He’s going to do whatever it takes to keep himself safe, to make it back to you.I would bet my life on it.”

“We’d quarrelled.I—I’d not been thinking, and we’d only just sorted it out.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock looks up, and Greg rubs his back once, and then lets his hand drop. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he repeats.“Even if you hadn’t got yourselves sorted, John would do his best to get back here and give you the chance.I’m telling you, Sherlock.I saw the two of you together, and…Just stop worrying, okay.He’s going to come home.It’s going to be okay.”

Deep down Sherlock knows that there is no way that Greg can know this for sure.His brain screams at him, to do the maths, to look at the statistics, to realise that chances are very good that this Moriarty person is somehow behind the whole mess, and that if someone as savvy as Irena Adler is that frightened of him, if Mycroft is telling him to keep out of it, if several people are dead already at the man’s hand, then the chances of John getting out of the whole thing in one piece don’t bear thinking about.

Still, there is something in Greg’s calm manner, his sincere concern, his confidence, that makes Sherlock want to believe.

Greg pats him on the back.“Listen, your brother is probably going to kill me for this, but if you want you can come down to the Met with me, and help us along a little.Just promise me—no running off.”

Sherlock looks up, more grateful than he can say.He nods.“Yes.Thank you."


	15. Chapter 15

“Drink it.”

Sherlock blinks down at the cup of steaming tea that’s just been pushed under his nose, and then looks up to find Sally Donovan staring down at him, eyebrow arched as though in challenge.

“Go on.”

Sherlock wraps his icy hands around the warm cup, but says nothing.  He’s been at the station eight hours, and he knows no more now than when he got here.  He feels useless, helpless. He thinks of John, wherever he is, alone, possibly in danger, possibly in pain, and his stomach twists in a ball of nausea, his normally sharp brain blurring to a field of pure, white nothingness.  He’s numb with it. Numb and useless.

To his horror, Sally pulls out a chair from the conference table he’s sitting at, swings it around and straddles it, resting her chin on the back to stare at him.  “How you doing, Freak?”  

Sherlock frowns.  It doesn’t seem to have her usual venom.  “What do you want?”

Sally sniffs, and leans back.  “You’re doing that thing.” And when he scowls,  “The panic thing. Stop worrying. We’ll find him.  They’ve brought in MI5 on this.”

“They’re useless.”

The corner of Sally’s mouth twitches.  “Mm. Maybe. But The Boss isn’t.”

Sherlock should concede to that point, but…

“Listen, I know we haven’t always been on the best of terms, and you’re panicking right now, so you’re going to be dick about this, but—I get it, okay.  He means something to you. Seemed a decent bloke from what I saw. You two deserve a chance to at least see. So, all of us here are going to do what we can—our best, okay.  So just—don’t give up. We’re nowhere near that point.”

And with that she pushes out of the chair and heads for the door.  

Sherlock stares down at the steaming surface of his tea.  “Sally.”

She pauses at the door.

“Thank you.”

She nods once in acknowledgement, and disappears.

They  _ are _ near that point, that’s the thing.  If Adler has taken John, then there can only be one explanation—this Moriarty person is behind it somewhere.  Mycroft had failed to handle the situation as he’d promised (typical), and she had seen no recourse but to take matters into her own hands.  Perhaps there had been a deal. Hand over John, and she and Kate can go free, disappear, get on with their lives.

It’s a deal Sherlock would have taken himself, if offered, so he can’t think too ill of her for it, but still it smarts.  It smarts that he once again let his brother dictate his actions, and once again it has come back to bite him, and not just him this time, but John too, and that is unforgivable.

“Holmes!”  Sally pops her head back into the conference room.  “We’ve got something.”

Sherlock is on his feet and dashing down the corridor after her in a flash.  When they reach Lestrade’s office, there are already several officers just outside the door, huddled around a computer monitor.

Sherlock shoves the nearest officer out of the way to reach Lestrade’s side.  “What is it? Where is he?”

Greg looks over his shoulder at him, and then points down at the map on the screen.  “We found the car Adler picked him up in. It was abandoned near the river in Dagenham.  There’s a bunch of empty warehouses down there, so we think…”

“No.”  All heads turn his way.  Sherlock shakes his head.  “No. That’s too easy. It’s what he would want us to think.  He’s got to be somewhere else.”

“Yeah.  Okay. Maybe.  But I really think we should start there,” Lestrade insists.

“But you’re wrong!”

Lestrade jerks his chin towards his office.  “Let’s talk about it, okay.”

“There isn’t time to talk!  All we’ve been doing is talking, and sitting, and wasting time!”

“Which is precisely what you should be doing.”  Sherlock’s head jerks up at the sound of his brother’s voice.

Mycroft is standing a few feet away, umbrella in one hand, and briefcase in the other.  The shoulders of his coat are damp. He looks tired.

Good, Sherlock thinks.  Good. He should be. This whole thing is his fault.  If he’d just allowed Sherlock to finish up his case with Adler none of this would be happening.

“Gregory.”

“Hey.”

“Why is my brother here?”

Lestrade shrugs.  “Figured it was better than leaving him to fret in his flat, alone.”

Mycroft hums noncommittally.  “Perhaps.”

“We found the car.”  Greg informs him.

“Yes, I know.  It’s why I’m here.”  His eyes flit to Sherlock’s momentarily, and then return to Greg.  “Have you told him?”

“Told me what?”  Sherlock snaps. He’s exhausted at being talked about rather than to, and now Greg and his brother are looking at one another as though they are having some sort of private conversation he isn’t privy to, and it’s driving him mad.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, but its Greg who speaks.  “There was blood in the car.”

Sherlock feels the adrenaline shoot through his veins, his head goes light.  “What?”

“We don’t know if it’s John’s.”  Greg tries to reassure him, but Sherlock is on his feet, and dashing out of the Met before they can stop him.  He hails a cab, gets in and then realises he has no idea where to go.

“Dagenham.”  It will be a 40 min drive, but it will give him time to calm, to think. He needs it.

* * *

The docks are well lit in some areas, and dark in others.  The car was found on the west end, and will have been carted back to the Met by now, so nothing for him to see there.  He heads out aimlessly into the night, doing his best to stay out of the sight of the CCTV cameras. Not an easy feat, but it gives him some small feeling of control to think that maybe he can do this on his own for once.  Because he doesn't need his brother, not in the way Mycroft has always seemed to think he does.

John is out here, somewhere (he hopes), and he has no intention of going back until he’s found, until he’s safe, and sound, and home again.  They were just starting to find their footing again, and they can’t leave it like this. There is so much more to discover, and share. The thought of going on without John by his side twists something tight and sour in the pit of his stomach.  

No.

It’s not an option.

John would never give up looking for him.

No man left behind.

Together or not at all.

The further east he moves, the darker it becomes.  There are older, more rundown warehouses here, some that look like they are barely hanging together.  Streetlights are burnt out, at intervals down the alleys that branch off the main road like veins. The rain, which had all but died out, picks up again, and Sherlock stands alone in the damp dark, and stares down one abandoned alley after another, reaching out, against all hope, against all logic, praying that somehow his brain will just take over in that strange way it has, piece together evidence he doesn’t even consciously realise he’s taking in, and then provide John’s whereabouts to him, fully formed.

He shuts his eyes and breathes, feels the sting of the cold rain on his face, and hears the ping of it against the metal roofs of the buildings around him, he smells the petrichor, the old tyres, the tar, and he reaches.

It’s stupid.  It’s childish hope.  It’s illogical and shameful, but he is willing to do anything, try anything, and it isn’t until that moment, standing in the cold, and the dark, that he realises just how very much he’s fallen.  He loves John Watson so much he is willing to defy everything he’s ever built his life around, just to see him safe.

Something clatters down the alley at his back, and he swings around, squinting against the rain.  There is a ragged, miserable looking tomcat standing on top of a skip, but on the ground there is the glint of something else. 

He jogs over and scoops it up, and thanks John from the depths of his heart for being a soldier worth his metal.  It’s a watch, John’s watch. He must have dropped it on purpose, a breadcrumb.

There’s a door on the other side of the skip.  It’s old and rusted, clearly locked, and doesn’t look like it’s been opened recently, but the least he can do is try.  He picks the lock and cringes as the hinges squeak loudly in the echoing silence of the building. When he steps inside it’s to what appears to be an old office.  There is a desk thick with dust, a rusted filing cabinet with one drawer hanging out and another missing, an overturned desk chair, but on the floor there is a recent trail in the old dust, three sets of footprints, another set of someone being dragged.

He strains for any sound, but hears nothing but the distant dripping of water, and the creaking and buckling of the metal roof out in the warehouse.

This has to be it.  It has to be the right place.  It seems too simple, but then maybe Moriarty was counting on that, counting on him expecting it to be clever, overthinking, missing what was right under his nose all along.  

Or maybe he just wants to be found.

The low rumble of distant thunder echoes outside, and Sherlock steps through the door from the office to the vast warehouse beyond.  There are rows and rows of empty shelves. Nowhere to really hide. It feels like a trap, and he’s painfully aware that he’s just walked straight in.  His brother is likely frantic over his antics. John would chastise him (hopefully he will when Sherlock finds him). He knows all this, and continues deeper into the building anyway.

He’s unarmed.  He’s vulnerable, there are plenty of walkways and rafters above him, where a sniper could easily perch, unseen in the darkness.  He does his best to stay close to the shelving, to check his corners before turning to make his way down one long corridor after another.  He’s two rows from the end, when he turns the corner and sees a huddled form, curled tight on the concrete floor. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but something about the curl of the spine, the tuck of the head, the controlled stillness makes him think of John.

He’s careful as he approaches, only because he knows it is what John would expect, that he would never forgive him if Sherlock were to give over to panic, rush in, and get himself shot, or worse.  But by the time he gets halfway there, he is left in no doubt, and the blood he can see matted in his blond hair, and the bruises he can see up his forearms make him forget every ounce of resolve.

Somehow he is instantly there, right there, fingers whispering over cuts, and bruises, and blood.  Too much blood. John appears to be unconscious, and his ankles and wrists are bound tight with rope.  Sherlock whips a pocket knife from his pocket and makes short order of them.  

“John.”

John jerks at the sound of his voice, stirs slightly, and then his hand shoots out to grip Sherlocks, iron firm.  “Get out.” It’s a raw whisper, deathly serious and laced with a fear that even Sherlock can hear. “It’s gonna go up.”

Sherlock’s brain feels thick and fuzzy, like a blanket of damp fleece has been cast over it.  All he can see is John, John’s blood, John’s body—broken, barely moving, right leg twisted oddly at the knee.  Not right.

“Sherlock!”  John’s nails dig into his palm.  “Leave me and get out. He’s going to blow it up.”

Everything speeds up in an instant, Sherlock’s brain kicking in again, laser sharp.  He scans the area. Nothing. Reaching down, he scoops John up, John who is heavier than he looks, but still manageable.  He hears John’s broken leg make a grinding, snapping noise, feels John swallow back the cry of agony against his chest, and then he is running, running for the front office, the door outside, air, and rain and safety.

He can hear sirens in the distance.

He makes it to the end of the alley before the shockwave of the first blast reaches him, flings him like a rag doll to the pavement on top of John, who does cry out then, but Sherlock doesn’t get up, he covers his head the best that he can, and lets his body shield John as pieces of debris rain down around them.

* * *

 

“Oh, I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Holmes, but I do have to take Dr. Watson’s vitals now.”

Sherlock blinks blearily, and then sits up, sits back from John’s hospital bed and lets the nurse do her work.  He was in surgery for hours for his leg, scans for head injury and internal bleeding, treatment for his bruises and abrasions.  It speaks of a beating Sherlock can’t bear to think about without his vision going red with the desire for revenge.

But right now, John is here, he’s alive, and he needs him, and Sherlock would die before he would leave his side.

John woke once, after surgery, disoriented and afraid, and Sherlock could only take his hand, and reassure him, and watch with relief as the after effects of the anaesthesia took him again.

The nurse moves silently about the room, doing what is necessary, and then leaves again with a small nod of acknowledgement in his direction.  

Sherlock knows he is fortunate to be allowed to stay here.  Some meddling of his brother’s no doubt. He’s grateful for once.  He can’t imagine what he would do if he weren’t allowed to see John, shut out, family only.

John stirs beneath the thin sheet, and Sherlock reaches out for his hand on instinct.  John’s knuckles are bruised and swollen, and so Sherlock holds it gently, cradling it carefully between both of his own, and John comes awake slowly, frowns up at the ceiling, blinks, and then turns his head to look at him.

“Hey,” he rasps.

“Hello.”

“Leg hurts.”

“You had to have surgery.  I can dial up your morphine a little, if you like.”

John shakes his head.  “Not right now.” John’s eyes rake over every inch of him he can see.  “You okay?”

And Sherlock huffs out a wet laugh at the absolute absurdity of the question, all things considered, and at how just very ‘John’ it is.  “I found you. I’m fine.”

John doesn’t say anything to that.  He only stares, eyes going red rimmed.  “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Should have known better than to just go with her.”

And Sherlock doesn’t ask for why’s or what happened.  There will be time for that later. He presses the cradle of his hands gently against John’s.  “It wasn’t your fault. None of this was remotely your fault.”

John’s mouth presses into a tight line, and his face goes pale.

“I’m turning up your morphine, now,” Sherlock informs him.  “Sleep.”

“Will you stay?” 

“Yes.”

He watches John’s eyes droop, and slowly close, watches the tears squeeze from beneath his closed lids to trail down his temples.  Sherlock reaches out and thumbs them away, and John turns into the touch, and then drifts with his head cradled in Sherlock’s hand.


	16. Chapter 16

There is a strange comfort in watching John sleep.Strange because the sight of him like this, bloody, bruised, barely knit back together by a surgeon’s skillful hand, should not be a comfort.But it is.It is because John is alive. 

He trembles and cries silently in his sleep.He moans in pain.His eyes are wide and glassy when he’s awake, as though something that had been sleeping since before he and Sherlock met has awakened again, risen to the surface, and possessed him.

A psychiatrist had been to see him the day before.John had been tetchy, jittery, angry.The man had scribbled notes and left again.A new diagnosis had been added to John’s chart.Just this morning a woman with a soft voice, round, pink cheeks and warm chocolate eyes had been to see him.Trauma support technician was her official title.His anger seemed not to faze her, her manner appeared to diffuse some of whatever it was he was feeling. 

And now he sleeps again, and he is alive, and if not whole, at least healing, and Sherlock is comforted.He can breathe again.He can breathe as long as he doesn’t think about what led to this, doesn’t think about the spectre lurking in the shadows, a man he has never seen, never met, but who has the kind of power that allows him to do this, to take away the one thing, the one person that is everything to Sherlock.

Sherlock thinks of Irena Adler and her wife.He hopes they’re somewhere far away.He hopes that she has been clever enough to realise that there can never be one last deal with a man like Moriarty, that she has plans in place.

Sherlock tries to come up with a plan of his own and fails.

He’s safe for now.His brother has arranged things with as much care as one can ever expect from him and provided them with as much safety as one can ever hope to receive, given the dangerous paths the Holmes family has always seemed to tread.But it’s not tenable.Right now his focus is John, and John’s recovery, but soon it will, of necessity, need to be more.

John stirs, whimpers softly, and Sherlock reaches for his hand without thought.

John starts awake, tears his hand from Sherlock’s, eyes wild.

“John.You’re in hospital.You’re safe.”

John’s eyes snap to his, wild and haunted.Sherlock sees the moment they register who Sherlock is and what Sherlock has said.His body goes limp with relief, and he tries to force a smile, which is so John it makes Sherlock’s chest ache.“Hey.”

“Hello.”Sherlock smiles back.“How’s your pain?”

“Not bad.”

“Good.”

They haven’t talked about it.Sherlock wonders if maybe they should.

“John, I…”

“Don’t.”It’s not a warning, not really.It’s a straightforward request, laced through with something that sounds a little like desperation, and Sherlock can’t deny him.

He nods instead.“Alright.”

What he wants, what he really wants is to crawl into the bed with John, to pull him close, and promise him that nothing like this will ever happen to him again, as long as he draws breath.But words seem impossible now, and it would be a lie anyway.He can’t promise that, and he knows it.It’s a helpless, horrible feeling.

He finds himself gazing longingly at John’s morphine pump, and looks away.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.I’m good.”John’s voice is rough.He’s not good, but he doesn’t want whatever Sherlock might have to offer.Sherlock’s not sure he blames him.

“You should go,” John says.“Go home and get some rest.I’m okay.”

“They said I can stay,” Sherlock replies stupidly.

John just nods and doesn’t say anything more.He seems a million miles away.

And Sherlock has done this, he realises.It is his fault.He had stupidly allowed John in, under his skin, into his heart, into his godforsaken travesty of a life, and now…

John’s fingers curl around his, and Sherlock looks down at them, before looking up again to meet his eyes.“This isn’t your fault.”

Sherlock stops breathing.

“Don’t—don’t go thinking that.”John draws in a quivering breath.“Please.”

“John, if I had followed my instincts, if I’d not listened to my brother, if I’d just…”

John’s grip on his hand tightens, almost to the point of pain.“Don’t.”He lets go.“I need this, okay.I need you to not blame yourself, because I can’t…”He swallows, and looks away, stares over and out the small window across the room.“I can’t deal with that, and all of this.”He motions down the length of his broken body, and he means more than just his body, Sherlock knows.He means everything, all of it.

“Alright.”

John looks back over at him.“You just saying that?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

John nods once.A quick, clipped jerk of his chin.“Okay.Good.”

“Bored?”

John looks up, brow and mouth quirked.“Mm?”

“Are you bored?I could go back to the flat, bring back some board games.”

“Think I might sleep, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

John closes his eyes, and Sherlock sits, and watches him.He’s not sleeping, but it’s clear he doesn’t want Sherlock there.“I’m going to go get some coffee.I’ll be back.”

He goes.He sits alone in the near abandoned cafeteria, and tries not to think, tries to do as John has bade him, and not to blame himself, and he tries to ignore his brother, too, when he strolls in and sits down across from him at the white melamine table.“It was a trap, you know.You were very lucky.”

“Yes.”

“We tracked him as far as Berlin, and then lost the scent.He won’t stay away forever, though.I imagine all this was a bit of an introduction, a calling card.If you are attached to the doctor at all, I would suggest cutting all ties.I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I can’t guarantee his safety.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up.He’s rather mortified at the bite in his eyes, at the way the image of his brother swims in front of him.He’s exhausted.It’s that mostly.But still…

Mycroft’s eyes drop.“I had hoped to keep this from you.All of it.And the timing is—unfortunate.”

“Keep what?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.“It’s a family matter.A very old one.It’s something I’ve been handling.But—well, it’s gotten rather away from me of late.”

“Family?You meant the agency, or…?”

“Both.”Mycroft leans back in his chair, and casts his eyes nervously around the cafeteria.“Best not to talk here.Come and see me at the office in a few days.”

“I don’t want any part in it.”

“You may not have a choice.”

“I’m going to leave.I’m going to take John with me.”

Mycroft just stares.After a moment he looks away and gets to his feet.“James Moriarty goes where he wants—it seems.I suppose you’ll do the same given half the chance.But I’d rather have you here, under my wing.”

“Why?You’ve just said you can’t _do_ anything.”It comes out raw, and bitter, but Sherlock feels every bit of it, and can’t be bothered to try and soothe his brother’s ego.

Mycroft, however, doesn’t rise to the bait.He only looks weary.“Come by the office, Sherlock.Better to go into this, whatever it is you’re plotting, well informed.”

And then he leaves, and Sherlock is left in the near empty cafeteria, staring down at the surface of his tepid cup of coffee.He bins it, and heads for the lift.

* * *

 

It’s three days later, after John has been released from the hospital, and set up on the sofa at Baker Street with telly, and tea, and a very attentive Mrs. Hudson, that Sherlock finally goes to see his brother.He’s ragged, running on caffeine, nicotine, and little else.He craves a hit of cocaine like he hasn’t in ages, but it’s John, the thought of John finding out, that stops him.

Mycroft is on the phone when his assistant shows Sherlock into the office.He waves Sherlock toward a chair on the other side of his desk, and Sherlock sinks into in gratefully, and must nod off for a moment, because when he jerks awake, eyes snapping open, it is to the sight of his brother leaning back in his chair, and staring at him in disapproval.

“You can’t keep this up, you know.You need sleep.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

“Are you clean?”

“Of course,” Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft arches a brow.Have you slept at all?

“A little.”

“You’re useless to him like this, you do realise that.”

Sherlock only glares.“I’m here.So tell me.”

Mycroft leans back in his chair, and tents his fingers beneath his lips for moment, taking Sherlock in as though assessing whether he is in any fit state to receive the information he is about to impart.After a moment he sits up in his chair again, and swivels the laptop on his desk so Sherlock can see the screen.

“This is James Moriarty.He was one of ours, until he decided to branch out on his own.He took an interest in you seven years ago when you were doing that work for us in Miami.He was part of the reason we brought you back.”

Sherlock studies the photo of the man, short, straight, black hair slicked back from a pale, high forehead, impeccably groomed brows, and black eyes that look clever and a little manic.“Why?”

“Mm?”

“Why did he take an interest in me?”

“Obsessions of this kind are rarely logical.”

“At the hospital, you said family,” Sherlock presses.“What did you mean?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.“I meant it just as it sounds.You know Mummy was married before.”

“He’s your brother?”

“And your half-brother.Yes.”

“And he worked for you.”

“Yes.”

“Do you recruit all your siblings, then?Any others I should keep an eye out for?”

Mycroft frowns.“Don’t be ridiculous, please.I am trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.”

“He’s dangerous?I mean beyond his obsession with me.”

Mycroft leans back in his chair, visibly relieved that Sherlock seems to be giving the situation the weight he feels it warrants.“Incredibly.It’s not so much he, himself, but rather the criminal network he’s built up.Using prior contacts, he now has a network that stretches through 15 countries here, on the Continent, Asia and the Middle East.He is a formidable force with eyes and ears everywhere.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why?Why build up this Network?For what purpose?Money?Power?”

Mycroft shrugs.“Because he can.Because he enjoys the challenge, the rush of it, and perhaps he needs it, in a way.Just as you seem to need your little puzzles—need this doctor of yours.”The last bit is said with a tinge of frustration and rebuke.But it hits Sherlock with more force and urgency than anything else his brother has told him.That, more than anything, underscores just how dangerous James Moriarty is, because there is no logic in what Sherlock feels for John and he knows it.It is something beyond him.It is obsession, compulsion, hunger, need—profound and unexplainable.

“I have a team of my people watching you constantly, but for now I encourage you not to go out alone, not to let Dr. Watson go out alone, and to please, not take any more cases.Let me and my people get our feet back under us.”

Sherlock sighs.It’s more for affect than anything else.His brother is right.But best not to let him know that.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock sighs again.“Fine.But if I catch even the slightest whiff that you’ve lost control of the situation again, I’m taking John, and we’re leaving together, do you understand?”

“I will handle it.”

“That’s what you said about Adler.Speaking of…?”

Mycroft squirms uncomfortably, and Sherlock has to fight back a grin.“Lost her too, have you?”

“It’s being handled.”

“Right.”

* * *

 

John is sitting on the sofa watching some horrible daytime telly when Sherlock returns.He’d met Mrs. Hudson in the hall, and she had told him that John had eaten some soup, but refused his sandwich, that he’d seemed anxious and snappish after Sherlock had left, but that he did stay put, and keep his leg elevated, as instructed.

John looks up when he walks in.“Everything okay?”

“My brother is being my brother, but other than that—yes.”

Sherlock smiles and holds up the paper sack of Thai food he’s brought with him for their supper.“Brought food.”

“Oh yeah?I like Thai.”

“Good, then let’s eat.”

John sits up, and props his leg on the coffee table, and Sherlock spreads out their meal on the space that’s left.John picks around inside a container of red curry for a moment or two until finally digging in.

Sherlock is grateful to see him eating.

“Your brother have any leads?”He asks around a mouthful. 

It’s the first time he’s even mentioned anything to do with the entire situation.Sherlock isn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. 

“Apparently he’s gone to ground.We’re supposed to stay put.Mycroft has a team of his people watching our flat.I told him he was being a bore.He didn’t seem to care.”

John smiles, actually smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little.He snorts around a mouthful of food.“Right.Well, I’m sure we can find some things to occupy us.”John winks at him, and Sherlock blinks.

It’s completely unexpected.John had been weary, and grumpy, and still somewhat reticent when he had left the house that morning.Now he seems—well, more himself.Sherlock can’t understand it.He wants to say something, to ask, but…

“You’re feeling better?”

John goes back to eating.“Mmm, a bit.Leg still hurts like hell, but—well, I was getting a bit tired of being a lump, you know.Was like that when I was in hospital before.After I got shipped home.You get sick of being sick.Wanna feel human again.”

“Yes.”

John lifts the container in his hand in a kind of salute.“Ta for this, by the way.Mrs. Hudson’s lovely, but you know—I think she sort of feels like I need to be drinking broth through a straw.Told her it was my leg broken, not my jaw, but she still seemed to think soup and bland sandwiches were the thing.

“Ahh.That may have been my fault,” Sherlock admits.“I imagine I may have made everything sound a great deal more serious than it is.I was—“He takes a deep breath.“Worried.”

John’s face does something odd, and then he looks away, back towards the telly.“Yeah, well.I’m good.I’ll be okay.Best to get on with things, yeah.”

“Yes.”

And John is as good as his word.He eats well, he chats, and laughs at the telly, and he lets Sherlock help him to bed, when the traffic outside the flat begins to thin, and the city quiets as much as it ever does.

They lie in the dark, silent and not sleeping.

Sherlock slides his hand over, beneath the sheets, and slips it atop John’s.

He sits in stillness until he hears John’s breath begin to slow and even out, and he wonders if he’s lost him.He would understand it, if he had.He really would.But it still aches, hollows him out inside until he feels like me might cave in under the weight of regret, of missing John.

He must sleep, because he wakes with a jolt to the feeling of a vicious kick to the thigh, and a fist to the ribs, and without thinking he reaches out, restrains his assailant, flipping them on their stomach, and pressing a knee to their spine.

John cries out, and Sherlock comes fully awake to the fact that it is John beneath him.He almost lets go, but John is still struggling franticly, violently. 

“John!John it’s me.”John tries to reach out behind himself, but Sherlock pins his nearest wrist to the mattress.“It’s Sherlock.You’re at our flat.You’re safe.Stop struggling, you’re going to hurt yourself.JOHN!”

John stills beneath him.Sherlock lets go, takes his knee off his spine, and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.“John?”

He hears him drag in a ragged breath, and then another, and another, and Sherlock realises he is crying.He doesn’t know what to do, so he simply stays where he is, sitting beside him on the bed, hand on his shoulder, hoping it’s enough, because it doesn’t feel enough by half, but he’s not sure that he would want more, need more, and so he sits.

It’s the worst sort of crying, the kind that wracks your bones and wrings you dry, and Sherlock thinks that maybe John isn’t just crying for what he’d just been through, but _all_ the things he’d been through, all the things that are constantly rising to the surface, and pushing between the cracks, no matter how well he’s doing, no matter how hard he’s trying.Better to purge it, Sherlock thinks, to let it all out.

It seems to go on forever, and Sherlock does begin to worry after awhile.He’s been there, the sort of full body grief that once it begins just seems like it will never stop.He slides his hand gently down the length of John’s spine, back up to his shoulder, down again, up and down, a slow, careful soothing.John’s sobs begin to fade into intermittent sniffs and hics, and then he stills completely.

Sherlock lays down beside him, reaches for him, and it seems like a kind of miracle when John lets him, lets him pull John in against his chest, and tuck his head under his chin and bury his nose in his hair.

They don’t say anything.They just lie like that, John’s arm tossed around Sherlock’s ribs, his breath ragged against Sherlock’s neck.There will be time for talking later.Or perhaps John will never tell him, and that’s alright, too, Sherlock thinks, as long as he tells someone.

“We should try to sleep again.”

“Okay.”John sounds small, and fragile, and disinclined to argue.Sherlock feels him pull closer, and Sherlock tightens his hold, relieved when John lets go, and finally relaxes.


	17. Chapter 17

The morning brings a nondescript black sedan parked across the street, a couple of agents disguised as run-of-the-mill contractors installing surveillance equipment in every spare corner they can reach, a fretful Mrs. Hudson, and a very grumpy John Watson.

John sits on the sofa in the lounge glaring at every bug and camera installed.  He responds to Mrs. Hudson’s attempts of nurturing with grunts of indifference. He refuses to even look at Sherlock, as though he blames him in particular for this new and unwanted intrusion into their privacy.

John knows it’s necessary.  Sherlock knows that. But that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.  And it’s not sustainable, and it’s not conducive to his healing, and so Sherlock begins to formulate a plan of his own.

There is a young woman at Barts hospital who will often help him.  He suspects she has a bit of a thing for him, and he really should try harder to dissuade her of that notion, he really should, but it’s just so damn useful.

And so it is, that afternoon, that Sherlock Holmes sets out for a case in Paris, and so it is later that same day, that an ambulance pulls up to the front of 221b, and whisks John Watson away, and if he never arrives at his destination, and instead disappears without a trace, and if Sherlock never shows up in the City of Light, well so be it.

And if, several miles north of Perth, an old and rarely used cottage, on an all but abandoned estate suddenly happens to have smoke pouring from the chimney, and a basket of food delivered to the front door, and slivers of warm, inviting light spilling out through the windows and into the darkness, no one in the vicinity will talk or mind.

People live and let live in these parts.  Sherlock remembers that much from spending summers there as a child, when Mummy would have over very important looking men in tweed suits from the university, while his father trotted off to the pub in town until their meetings were done.

The cottage used to be the gatehouse of a larger estate, long since burnt to the ground.  But it’s big enough for the two of them, and when they finally get settled, John on the small, fraying sofa near the hearth, and Sherlock in a nearby chair, John catches his eye, and then laughs, actually laughs at the absurdity of it all, at the brash, reckless daring, and Sherlock can’t help but think that no matter the risk, it’s all been worth it to see him smile.  He would risk it all and more again, just to see his eyes sparkle, his cheeks pink, and to see the way all the tension of the last couple of weeks slowly seeps from his bones, and his shoulders drop, and his eyes search Sherlock’s warm, and fond, and just a little bit hungry.

“Can’t believe you.”

“Yes, well…  You didn’t seem all that keen on being tended to by my brother’s minders.”

John sighs, and smiles, and leans back against the cushions Sherlock has propped against his back, letting his eyes slide shut.  “Was that obvious, was I?”

“Yes.”  And when John opens his eyes again.  “Not that I blame you.”

John rolls his head against the cushion and glances around the small and homely space, mostly one room for cooking, eating, living, and then two bedrooms off the main area and one loo.  “What is this place?”

“What’s left of an old family estate.  We don’t use it much anymore. I doubt anyone will think to look for us here, and it belongs to my mother, so if we had need of—assistance, we could have people here in a snap.  I’d only have to reach out.”

John’s brows furrow a little, but he doesn’t ask anything further.  “Mmm. Bit small, but nice. Big enough for us.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

John stares up at the ceiling for a long time.  Sherlock is just about to get up and throw another log on the fire, when he finally speaks again.

“Ta, for this.”

Sherlock settles back into his chair.  “You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.”

“No.  I mean it—really.  All of it.”

“All of what?”

John shrugs, rubs a hand over his eyes.  “Dunno. Just… No one’s ever… Just love you, I guess.”

Sherlock’s heart flutters in his chest for a moment, and he wonders why it aches as much as elates him.  John means it. He knows he does. But he looks—sad about it.

“John, I—I’m sorry.  For everything. I never…  There was work I used to do, and I’d left it all behind, but I never thought that…”

John sniffs and nods, stares across the room at nothing in particular.  “You were what? MI-5? MI-6?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but when John meets his eyes again, he must see it.  He nods again. “And this bloke—Jim Moriarty—he someone you pissed off?”

“No.  He’s—my half-brother, apparently.”

John’s eyes snap to his, and Sherlock shakes his head at the ludicrousness of it all.  “Which I didn’t know until a few days ago. Apparently he was working for Mycroft, as well.  But no one is quite clear on why he’s developed this sudden obsession. 

“You have to believe me, if I’d had any idea all the cards were about to come tumbling down, I never would have—I would have kept my distance from you, I wouldn’t have dragged you into my life, into all this.”

John stares, holds his gaze until it hurts, but Sherlock doesn’t look away.  Finally John swallows dryly, and jerks his chin once. “Then I’m glad you didn’t find out until later, because—meeting you has been the best thing to ever happen to me.  And yeah, I wish this didn’t happen, but, well, these things have a way of happening to me. My lot in life, I guess. I’ll heal. I’ll move on from it, and you—you’ll still be here.  I hope?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s enough for me.”

Sherlock silently wonders if ‘heal and move on’ is code for ‘sweep it all under the carpet’, but he knows well enough to not say as much.

* * *

 

And John does get better—physically at least.  His leg heals. His cast is removed leaving his leg aching and weak.  He has good days, and bad days, but on the good ones he allows Sherlock to help him with the exercises the physical therapist, an old friend of Sherlock’s mother, suggested.  He goes out for walks. Often he can only make it a short distance down the gravel drive, but over time, he manages to go further, and further, until after several months he is walking almost as well as he did before, with the exception of a slight limp whenever the weather turns.

The colour returns to his cheeks, the shadows slowly fade from his eyes, and the nightmares become few and far between.  

Sherlock feels a sort of calm satisfaction, that he has managed to be something of value to John, that he has done his best by him, and it has helped.  Clearly it was the right decision to disappear. He begins to think about returning to London, but that is a decision that is up to John, and he isn’t quite sure how to broach it.

In the end he doesn’t have to.

He and John are eating a dinner of John’s excellent shepherd’s pie, and a nice cabernet when John brings it up.  “Been thinking about going back to London. Wondered what you thought about that?” John says around a mouthful of potato.  

“Yes.  I’ve been thinking about it too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Figured we’re a bit young to spend the rest of our days taking leisurely strolls through the highlands.”

“Fair point.”  Sherlock smiles, and stuffs another forkful of food into his mouth.

“Would like to still help you with your cases.  If that’s alright.”

“Of course.”

“Won’t slow you down.  Promise.”

“I know you won’t.”  The truth is, John likely will in some cases, but they can cross that bridge when they come to it, and Sherlock can start back on the easier cases, simple thefts, fraud. 

John goes back to eating in silence, after his plate is clean, he picks it up, and Sherlock’s as well, and takes them to the sink a few steps away.  “You think Mrs. Hudson still has the flat available, or will we need to find a new place?”

“Oh no, I’ve been keeping her apprised of the situation here.  She hasn’t let it to anyone else.”

“Yeah?  Well that was good of her.”  John goes back to quietly washing dishes.

He’s like that these days, quiet and withdrawn much of the time, some days trembling with barely repressed rage that seems to rise out of nowhere.  Sherlock has learned to give him space, to diffuse it when it comes. 

And they don’t touch, not the way they used to before everything.  They haven’t even kissed since the night before John disappeared. They share a bed.  Sometimes John will permit Sherlock to lay a hand on his head or shoulder in passing, a comforting squeeze.  Once or twice they have lain in bed, fingers twined, after one of John’s nightmares, but beyond that—nothing.

For once in his life it’s something Sherlock is beginning to miss.  Oh, he would never press the issue, or even broach the topic at all.  John has been through things Sherlock can scarcely imagine, things he can’t bear to think about, and far be it for him to take even the slightest hint of John’s bodily autonomy away from him.  

It’s clearly the one thing John is desperate to feel control over now, and he has cared for his body these last few months, with a precise, almost military attentiveness, his daily ablutions always completed at the same time, in the same order, his physical therapy exercises executed with a fierce commitment and determination that has awed and even worried Sherlock at times.  Even his diet has been adequate, but limited. 

It’s ordered.  It’s controlled.  It’s safe.  

Sex is something else altogether.

It’s overwhelming, and vulnerable, wild and a little chaotic.  It’s everything John can’t afford at the moment.

But John is still John.  Beautiful, fierce and strong—achingly so.  And it seems that Sherlock’s body, once accustomed to his touch, is now missing it.  He has managed alright, of course. He takes care of things, usually in the shower, when the ache becomes intense enough to become distracting.

But tonight.  Tonight John brought a bottle of wine to the table.  Tonight John cooked them something a little more substantial than sandwiches, soup or risotto.  Tonight John had lit a candle at the table, and turned the lights down low, and Sherlock can’t help but wonder if it means something.

He gets up, strolls to the sink, takes up the tea towel nearby.  “Let me help.”

John blinks up at him with a smile.  “Ta.”

They work on the dishes quietly, side-by-side until they’re done.  When the kitchen is tidied and everything put away John turns and heads for the bedroom without a word.  Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s meant to follow, but he does anyway. He shuts out the lights, checks the locks at the doors.  When he returns to the bedroom, John is undressing. Sherlock clears his throat so that John knows he’s there, and then leans against the door jamb and watches appreciatively when John doesn’t acknowledge him.

John strips out of his jumper, his shirt, his vest.  And Sherlock sees, for the first time, the scar from the exit wound at his shoulder.  It is, in a word, a mess. Clearly something that had been patched together in the field, reworked at a field hospital and then been subjected to several surgeries afterwards, to remove infected tissue, and correct hasty suturing.  John’s shoulders rise and fall, his breath quickening. He can clearly feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, but does he really want Sherlock here? And is Sherlock just meant to watch, or is this an invitation to more. Sherlock has never been very adept at reading the subtleties of flirtation.  He’s taught himself reasonably well over the years. It can be useful. But John isn’t someone with whom he wants to take the risk of getting it wrong.

He moves carefully across the room, pauses when he reaches John, who is now leaning against the dresser in front of him, gripping the edge, knuckles white.  Sherlock is close enough that he knows John can feel his body heat, feel the waft of his breath in his hair, but he doesn’t touch, not yet. He has to be sure.

“Are you alright?”  He murmurs, watches John’s grip on the dresser tighten, his skin burst into gooseflesh.

After a moment, John nods.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

John lets out a stuttering sigh.  His head drops between hunched shoulders.  “Please.”

It’s so quiet Sherlock isn’t even sure if he’s really heard it, but he takes one final step closer, and dips down to press his lips gently to the nape of John’s neck.  John’s ragged breathing hitches, but he arches his back, and presses against Sherlock’s body, and lets out a small strangled sound when he feels the state Sherlock is in.

Sherlock groans in response, and wraps his arms around John’s waist to pull him back against his body.  They don’t fit well this way, their height difference makes it impossible for either of them to get what they’re hoping for, but Sherlock runs his hands over the planes of John’s chest, the soft flesh of his belly, kisses his head, and the top of his ear, his shoulder, and anywhere he can reach.

John shifts, turns in Sherlock’s arms, and surges against him, a riptide of need, dragging Sherlock under, overwhelming him in seconds, and Sherlock lets him.  He seems to need this, this flurry of tongue, and teeth, hands everywhere, frantic pushes and thrusts that can find no purchase, as he tries to get close enough and fails again and again here in the middle of the room.

It’s when John lets out a sound, half growl of frustration, half whimper of desperation, that Sherlock comes back to himself, and decides to do something about it.

“John…  John.” He takes John’s upper arms in his hands, and feels John still, chest heaving, as he pants against Sherlock’s neck.  “Bed?”

“God yeah.  Please.”

Sherlock nods, lets go of John’s arms and goes and lies down.  John is on him in a breath, sitting back on his thighs, making short order of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt.  And Sherlock lies there and strokes John’s still clothed thighs, and watches him as he peels back Sherlock’s shirt from his chest, and runs his hands over the planes of his ribs.  

His mouth is lax, and his brows knit like maybe he’s in pain, just a little.  It’s possible with the way he’s sitting, kneeling over Sherlock’s body, but there is a long, hard bulge straining at the front of his trousers, so if it is pain, it might just be the sort John likes.  

Sherlock decides to take a risk.  he slides his hands all the way to the top of John’s thighs, and stops, strokes his thumbs along John’s inseam, and watches, fascinated as John’s breath stutters, and his eyes drop shut, and his hips roll bringing the tips of Sherlock’s thumbs in contact with his aching, eager cock.  His breath catches in a small grunt, like someone has just punched him in the stomach, and Sherlock thinks it a good sign, like perhaps he would like more, and so he lifts one hand from John’s thigh and presses it there, the whole of his palm.

His hands are burning hot, and John’s trousers thin, and must register the warmth, must appreciate the pressure and slight friction as Sherlock drags his palm up, and then down again, because his mouth drops open, his breath goes ragged, and his head drops back.

Sherlock is awed  that John is letting him do this, letting Sherlock touch him like this, draw pleasure from his body.  He wants to take it slow, savour it, but at the same time he is desperately afraid that John might change his mind.  Still. He needs to be sure.

It’s clear John is all in, at the moment.  His hips are rolling in a slow, maddening cadence as Sherlock palms him, the weight of him giving Sherlock everything he needs, possibly too much, because it has been such a long time, and now that they’re here, and it’s happening, Sherlock knows that he’s too keyed up, that he’s likely to go off in another minute or so if John doesn’t stop.

Sherlock pulls back and reaches for John’s belt, and John instantly freezes.

“Shall I?”  

John looks down at him.  He looks drunk. And to Sherlock’s great relief and delight he nods.  Sherlock unbuckles him, removes the belt, hesitates again, for a moment, the button of his flies, but John just nods again, and so Sherlock continues on.  When he unzips him, John groans in relief, as he springs free, tenting the soft cotton of his pants.  

Sherlock’s mouth waters.

“Get out of all this?”

John scrambles off of him and strips even as Sherlock does the same, wiggling out of his clothing and tossing it somewhere, anywhere, and then John is crawling back on top of him again, his cock standing thick and twitching against his belly, and Sherlock pulls him down, and crushes their mouths together, and feels like he’s falling and flying all at once.

Somewhere in the back of his head he wonders why now?  Why after everything, after he almost lost John, after months of careful dancing around one another, followed by tension, followed, again, so swiftly by disaster, are they here now, doing this like they’ve been doing it all along, no months of nothing, no fear, no hesitation, a relief, almost, a joyful thing.

John’s body is starting to feel sticky with the heat of their exertions.  Everything is sticking to everything else, and it’s a miracle to have so much of John’s flesh available to his questing hands, but it’s also getting more, and more difficult to derive much pleasure from it.  Perhaps he should ask about lube?

John’s tongue plunges into Sherlock’s mouth, tasting, taking, and Sherlock groans in the back of his throat and forgets about everything but the way John is taking what he is so hungry for (must have been starving for!)  As they both begin to sweat in earnest, things get easier, bodies slick and slide together, saliva and other body fluids add into the fray, and everything becomes delicious. 

John is speaking, Sherlock realises, and he tries to focus on the particulars, words and small snatches of phrases he pants out as frots against Sherlock’s hip, smears his mouth over his chest, teases a nipple, plunges his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and pulls.

Sherlock moans, and John smiles against his skin.  “God. Sherlock. Missed you so much.”

And Sherlock can’t make words, so he simply slides his hands down John’s back, wraps his arms around his waist, kisses his forehead, and hopes John understands that it’s been the same for him, that he has missed John every second of every day that he felt a rift between them, or when John had retreated within himself, trying desperately not to care so much, not to set himself up for hurt.

John stills above him, breath still coming fast, and shallow, cock still twitching and straining between them.  Sherlock opens his eyes, and John smiles down at him, eyes full. Sherlock doesn’t understand it, but he leans into John’s touch when he cups a hand against Sherlock’s cheek.  “I’m sorry,” John says, sounding more earnest about it than Sherlock has ever heard before.

“For what?”

“For how I’ve been the last few months.”

Sherlock frowns.  “You’ve been recovering.”

“But before that.  Before that, too. I…”  John sucks in a stuttering breath.  “It’s not easy for me, letting go. I want to.  With you. I want to, but I…” John’s eyes fill again, and a single tear spills over to hang from the tips of his lashes.  He reaches up and wipes it away almost angrily before rolling off Sherlock and flopping onto his back.

Sherlock takes it all in, the way he looks—young, suddenly, the way he winces a little as he stretches his leg, rolls his shoulder, all the aches and pains suddenly catching up with him now that the pleasure is fading.

John looks over at him, brows knit, eyes still glistening.  “I just get so scared.”

Sherlock watches his throat bob, and new tears spill over, one’s John doesn’t bother to tend to this time.  He lies down and tucks in close. He waits.

“It’s not this.  It’s not us. Not because…  I mean it’s not what you’re thinking.”  

Sherlock isn’t thinking anything in particular, but he lets John go on.

“It’s not because we’re—blokes.  Not that. Not—really.”

“We’ve talked about this before.  I understand, John.”

“Do you?  Do you? Then tell me, because Christ knows, I don’t.”  He sounds desperate.

“Giving so much of yourself is difficult for most people.”

John huffs.  “People fuck everyday, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but they don’t make love every day.”

John’s eyes snap to his, and more tears squeeze from the corners to run over his temple.

“There are so many things more intimate than fucking, John, and this thing you keep worrying about, this thing you feel you’re denying yourself, denying me, it’s not about fucking.  It’s about trust. It’s about giving yourself over into my safe keeping, and that isn’t easy, especially now, especially after everything that’s just happened.”

“I told you not to blame yourself for that.”

“And I’m trying not to, but even if I wasn’t responsible in any way, you have to accept that you were put in a position where you weren’t safe.  Give yourself time.”

“I’ve never been safe, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs.  He reaches out brushes his fingers through the hair at John’s temple, watches John’s eyes slide shut.

“John, I’ve told you, I have no expectations, no timeline, and it is more important to me that you  _ feel  _ safe, than that we rush into something simply because we feel it’s a box that needs to be ticked before this can be considered something real.  I’ve never believed that. I never will. And if we never—tick all the boxes, I couldn’t care less.”

John’s head turns, trapping Sherlock’s hand between his cheek and the pillow.  “Maybe I want to.”

Sherlock smiles.  “Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Ahh.  Well, I would say we were doing rather well a minute ago.”

John huffs wetly.  “Yeah… But then I stopped, just when I…  I don't know why I do that.”

“What do you want?”  Sherlock sees the question catch John by surprise.  “What did you want, just before we stopped?”

John’s face does a myriad of things Sherlock doesn’t understand.  He looks pained. After a moment or two, he shakes his head, and lifts an arm to drape it over his eyes.

“You can tell me, you know.  I’ll say, if I don’t want to.”

John’s cheeks are going pink.  He shakes his head.

“Not sure I really do, or if it’s just how much I want you talking.”

“Ahh.”

They lie in silence for some time.  When John finally sighs, and Sherlock speaks.  “Would you let me…” He thinks for a moment. “Would you let me decide, John.  Could you trust me to do that? With the option of stopping whenever you wish, of course.”

John lets his arm slide away from his eyes to rest on the pillow behind his head.  He looks scared, Sherlock thinks. But if there is one thing he knows about John it’s that he’s brave as well, and if he wants this, really wants it, then…

“What do you mean?”

“I mean let me love you.  Just—trust me." 

John swallows down his fear.  “I… What would you do?”

“Whatever you like.”

John smiles and then huffs.  “Aren’t we right back where we started, then?”

Sherlock smiles back.  “So it seems. Tell me John.  Just tell me.”

John’s brows knit together and he nods.  For a moment Sherlock thinks he’s going to cry, but he takes a deep breath, and looks Sherlock dead in the eye, and…

“I want you to fuck me.”  And he must see something on Sherlock’s face, because a second later his cheeks pink, as he rolls onto his side to face Sherlock properly, and he amends.  “Make love to me. Do you know what I mean?”

Sherlock nods.

“I know you’ve never…  If you want to take time to get used to the idea, that’s okay.  And if you never want to…”

“I do.”  Sherlock reassures him, because if this is it, if this is the one thing that John has been  wanting so much he couldn’t even bring himself to say it, then Sherlock is not about to deny him.

“Listen, I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing this on you.  I know you want me to be happy, but I don’t need this to…”

“John.”  

John stops short.

“I’m telling you, I’m willing to try.  It might not happen right away. It might not be the magic you’re imagining, but I do want to try it.  I like trying things with you, and I don’t particularly like to rule things out before I have tried them.

John smiles, weak and crooked.  “Yeah, but this isn’t some new research method, this is…”

“But it is in a way.  It’s us discovering what we like.  That’s—research of a kind, isn’t it?”

John’s grin spreads wider.  “Yeah… Yeah, I suppose.” He stretches up and kisses Sherlock, slow, and sweet, and lazy.  He seems less anxious now, and perhaps it’s the saying it that’s helped, finally admitting it—to Sherlock and himself.

They continue on as they had been, bodies twined, hands and mouths everywhere.  John comes at Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock at John’s mouth, and then they lie close, warm, sated, fingers meshed and foreheads pressed together until they drift and sleep takes them both.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! With this chapter the fic is complete.
> 
> Thanks so much to @astudyinsnoggy (beta) and @SherlockSister1 (brit-picking some of the later chapters) on Twitter for their help. Thanks to the incomparable @khorazir for commissioning this fic through her very generous donation to the Fandom Trumps Hate 2019 charity auction, and for the freedom she gave me in picking what I would write.
> 
>  **Please note additional tags for this last chapter:** #Anal Sex, #Anal Fingering, #Anal Plug, #Bottoming from the Top

It’s raining in London.  It’s been raining for a month straight.

In days past these would be the sorts of stretches that would crawl under Sherlock’s skin and test him to the breaking point.  Mediocre cases. Damp, grey, endless stretches of boredom. The itch for stimulation.

But this afternoon the hearth is lit.  The lamps are lit. John is sitting in a pool of golden light across the lounge, at the table they use as a shared desk, and typing away at the blog he’s recently started after a particularly interesting case involving a beleaguered nanny and a missing daughter.  He seems focussed, engrossed. The traffic hums quietly outside. The rain patters against the glass. Sherlock only half pays attention to the cells swimming beneath his microscope lens.

He is content.

And this is how John has changed him, he thinks.  Even his brother had noticed when they finally returned to London.  Oh, there has been the usual arched brows and clucks of disapproval, but then there had been a shadow of something else, and an observation.  “Something’s different. What is it?”

And Sherlock could only shrug.  But his brother had been right for once.  Something was different. Something had settled.

The risks are still there.  The spectre of Moriarty still looms.  John’s leg still aches and grows stiff in the damp weather, he still wakes with a cry some nights, still trembles at times, when they come together, even though their intimate explorations have grown more frequent and more daring since they returned from Scotland.  

And Sherlock?  Sherlock still itches for stimulation when he has been still for too long, and still shuts down from overstimulation when things get too intense.  He still struggles to vocalise the important things, to remember to ask or tell John things before he acts. But the two of them are getting better—together.  

And perhaps that is what has changed, he thinks.  He’s not alone anymore. By choice.

They’re not alone anymore.

John looks up from his laptop, and catches Sherlock watching.  He smiles. “You okay?”

“Mmm.  Just this weather.”

“It is a bit much.”  John leans back in his chair, and stretches with a slight wince, stares out the window at the slate grey nothingness for a moment, and then back over at Sherlock.  “Good day to stay in and do nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Mm.”

“Nothing’s boring.”

John grins.  “Fair point. You got any ideas?”

“Mrs. Hudson has her day out with Mrs. Turner.”

John’s grin widens.  “Yeah. She does.”

“Won’t be back until this evening.”

“Too right.”

Sherlock smiles back, winks, and then gets up and heads for the bedroom.  There is no question that John will follow. It’s what John does, always, without question.  And that is the crux of the thing that they have been exploring between them, of late. Well—Sherlock has been exploring it.  He wonders how aware John has been.

He’s only reached the third button of his shirt when John is spinning him around, pushing him against the wall, and overwhelming him like the surge of an oncoming flood.  Sherlock hears the glass covering the art on the wall behind him crunch a little. He pulls back enough to let it fall to the floor, and then gives as good as John, crowding forward and pushing him up against the closed door of the wardrobe beside them.

He feels John go tense with momentary surprise, and then relax again with a smile against Sherlock’s mouth.  “Christ, Sherlock. Been thinking about this all day.”

“It’s only noon.”

John huffs against his jaw.  “Don’t be a prat.”

Sherlock chuckles and starts to work on John’s shirt buttons even as John does the same with his.  

Clothes drop and fly, fingers seek and explore, mouths claim.

Sherlock points them in the direction of the bed and when they get there John lets himself be pushed back, yields beneath Sherlock’s weight, hips pushing up, an already impressive erection pushing against Sherlock’s belly, brushing against his own.  

Sherlock feels the slight damp gather between their bodies, a small patch between them, and John thrusting up against his weight, faster, and faster, nipples peaked, head thrown back, mouth open, and panting around grunts and gasps, until his whole body goes tense, shudders, and John comes with a moan of relief between them.

It’s over in a matter of minutes.

He really must have been thinking about it all morning.

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat at the thought.

John has one hand flung above his head.  His eyes are closed. His face flushed. “Sorry,” he whispers and cracks one eye open.  “Sorry. Just—give me a few and we can do that again.”

Sherlock smiles down at him, fond and amused at John’s confidence in his own refractory period, which isn’t nearly so impressive as he seems to think, as he well knows from experience.  But John is particularly prone to snuggling after he comes, so all is not lost. Sherlock isn’t about to waste that opportunity.

He rolls over onto his side, and takes John with him.  John makes a small sound of objection, but then yields and actually tightens his grip when Sherlock wraps his arms around him and pulls him close.

“You okay?” John’s lips whisper against his clavicle and Sherlock’s cock twitches in response.  “I could…” John’s hand slides down his hip and begins to inch between their bodies.

“Not yet.  I can wait.”

John’s hand retreats again, and he tangles their limbs, one thigh sliding up between Sherlock’s, pressing against his erection with just enough pressure to keep him half hard, if he shifts now and again.  It aches, but it’s pleasant, too, and John is letting him touch, and explore, to trace fingers lightly down his spine, and press soft kisses into his hair, and after a few minutes John begins to recover from his post-orgasmic torpor, and to respond in kind, with lazy, sloppy kisses to Sherlock’s neck, a gentle kneading of his arse, and contented, breathy sighs against Sherlock’s skin that seem to light him aflame more than any of the other sounds John had been making earlier.

Sherlock can feel himself drifting, his brain shifting into that slightly detached state he can usually only achieve with drugs.  It’s fascinating that it should happen now, between them like this. It never has before. He tries not to cling to it, or to notice it too much.  He lets himself drift deeper with each whisper of John’s fingers, press of his lips, whisper or sigh against his neck, his ear, his chest.

John is still too tired to really make any effort.  Everything is slow, and heavy, and warm, and Sherlock’s arousal is simmering low and steady, a perfect thing that pulls and aches just right, that he thinks maybe he could ride forever if he wanted to, floating between one state of consciousness and another, like when you half wake after a very late night out, and have nowhere to go, and so just choose stay there, drifting in and out.

“Christ you’re gorgeous…”  John’s small, capable hands sweep the length of his thigh, up over his hip, whisper over his ribcage.  “Look at you.”

Sherlock is lax, and flushed, and receptive to anything, everything.  He wraps his arms around John’s waist and rolls onto his back taking John with him.  He feels the huff of surprise, feels John’s hands find purchase on the mattress either side of his head, feels him push up a little, pressing his body down against Sherlock’s, and oh!  The burst of sudden pleasure makes Sherlock’s breath catch, and a moan he hadn’t expected escape his throat.

John stills, and Sherlock cracks open an eye to look up at him.  John looks awed. He pushes up even more, sits back against the cradle of Sherlock’s pelvis.  “Got an idea.”

Sherlock smiles, half drunk on pleasure.  “I see.”

John smiles back.  “You got condoms?”

Sherlock blinks and feels his heart flutter, and small burst of anxious anticipation bloom in his centre, and then, oddly, travel straight to his cock, which lets John know just exactly how receptive he is to whatever comes next, with an eager throb beneath the weight of John’s body.  

John grins.  “Something like that, yeah.”

Sherlock nods toward the nightstand on his side of the bed.  “In the usual spot. I got more lube yesterday, too.”

“Well done.”  John scrambles off of him, fetches the supplies in question and returns, wasting no time in tearing open the condom package, and sliding it down Sherlock’s length.  Sherlock simply lays there, blinking up at him, wondering as usual with John, why now, why today.

John’s face is flushed bright scarlet, and Sherlock thinks that there is something more than love and lust glittering there.  His eyes look full.

Sherlock reaches out and takes his hand.  “John…”

But John just shakes his head.  “Unless it’s you who doesn’t want to do this, which is fine, by the way, let’s not talk about this, okay.”

Sherlock nods.  “Alright.”

“Okay.”

John jerks his head once in assent, and then uncaps the lube and spreads a generous amount down the length of Sherlock’s shaft.  It’s slightly cool, and the sudden jump in temperature sends another other thrill of pleasure racing down his spine to bloom hot and molten in his abdomen.  “Feel good?” John is grinning, and Sherlock can only nod as John gives him a long languorous pull, and then another.

Sherlock’s breath catches, and he pushes up into John’s touch, and sees John’s mouth part and his pupils dilate.  It’s unlikely he could get hard this soon after coming, but he’s clearly aroused. He squirms a little in Sherlock’s lap, and his eyes screw shut.  “Got a surprise for you.”

John takes the hand Sherlock still has meshed with his, and lifts it to his hip, slides it further back and stops when Sherlock’s fingers are ghosting over his crack.  John grins. “Go on, then.”

Sherlock goes exploring, and stops dead, eyes snapping up to John’s when he encounters something he wasn’t expecting nestled there.

John grins even wider.  “Never go in unprepared.  First thing they teach you in the army.”

Sherlock blinks.  “When…”

“Thought you timed my showers in the morning, deduced when I’d been in there a little too long for just washing.”

“I—I thought you were masturbating.”

John huffs out a laugh, his eyes dropping and his cheeks somehow going even redder.  “Was really. Wanted to take it slow. Work up to it. Was okay in the end, but go easy on me, okay.”

Sherlock’s head feels light.  “You—you’ve been wearing it all morning?”

John nods, his smile spreading even wider, and looking just a little wicked, Sherlock thinks.  “I’m not the only one who keeps track of Mrs. Hudson’s days out with Mrs. Turner, you know. We’ve gotten up to things the last four times.”

“So you want…?”

John’s head tilts almost imperceptibly in the direction of his arse.  “Thought that was sort of obvious.”

“Yes.  Of course.  Yes.”

John glances down at Sherlock’s cock, and reaches for the lube, puts a bit more in his palm, and returns to what he was doing before.  “Thought the first time, I could maybe—set the pace?”

Sherlock just nods, every ounce of his shocked brain that can still function focussed entirely on the sensations John is teasing from his body.  The heat, the tension, the delicious pull. He thinks about what his fingers had only barely brushed a moment before, and he sucks in a breath at the fresh surge of pleasure.

John had done this, John had taken the time to prepare himself, to ready himself, and then he had been so patient, simply going about his morning routine, as though nothing was amiss, all the while hiding this delightful and slightly naughty secret just for Sherlock to find.

He thinks about how quickly John had come, and wonders what it must have felt like for him, to be filled at the moment he did.  Had it felt different? Had it intensified his pleasure? It’s something he might like to try for himself, he thinks, but perhaps they can save that for Mrs. Hudson’s outing next week.

John is starting to shift atop him now, working the plug a little, Sherlock thinks, chasing sensation.  John’s unlikely to get fully hard again this soon, but his cock is thick and heavy between his legs, slightly flushed, beautiful.  Sherlock’s mouth waters, even as he throbs and twitches against John’s palm.

“You ready?”

“Are you?”

The question seems to catch John by surprise.  His hand stills, like maybe it’s just hit him, what it is he’s suggesting, what it is they are about to do.  He looks down at Sherlock, forehead damp, eyes full, and nods.

“Do you want me to…?”

John nods.  “Go slow. It’s been in there for awhile.”

Sherlock takes up the lube, dispenses a little over the fingers of his right hand, and then reaches around with his left, and slips his fingers down, and in.  John is warm, and already slick with sweat. He can feel it trickling from the base of his spine down the length of his crack. He finds the end of the plug, and nudges it lightly.  John’s mouth pops open with a small gasp, and Sherlock watches rapt, as his cock fills a little more. He’s nearly half hard again already.

He wants this.  He really and truly wants this, and far be it for Sherlock to deny him.  He nudges the plug again, watches John’s eyes widen and then fall shut, and then Sherlock takes hold, and pulls.  It takes a gentle hand and a little patience. John’s body has grown used to the intrusion and doesn’t want to give it up easily, but when it finally pops loose, John moans deep, and guttural, a gorgeous sound that makes Sherlock’s toes curl, and his hips roll on instinct.

“Oh god.  I—Sherlock, I need…”

Sherlock brings his lube-slick fingers around, and teases the edges.  John is stretched wide, and he flutters around Sherlock’s fingers, as Sherlock slides two in, slowly, carefully.  John presses back against his hand, taking Sherlock in deeper and moans again.

Sherlock’s whole body sings to life at the sensation of John’s body wrapped so tightly around him.  It’s warm, and snug, and Sherlock can feel every surge of pleasure that passes through John’s body, because there is an echoing wave against his fingers, drawing him deeper, desperate and hungry.

John pushes back a little further, and then freezes with a shiver.  “Give me a minute.”

“Of course.”  Sherlock rubs his free hand soothingly up and down the length of John’s thigh.  “Tell me when you want more.”

“Want more.”  John presses down a little more, stops, and then relaxes, taking Sherlock’s fingers all the way in.  He settles, breathes, and then his hand finally begins to work Sherlock’s cock again.

Sherlock’s fingers twitch at the sudden sensation, and John’s breath catches, his whole body clenching around Sherlock, pulling his fingers deeper, hand tightening around Sherlock’s cock, and for one bright, overwhelming moment, Sherlock thinks he might come, but then it passes, and John trembles above him, chest heaving and pink, nipples peaked, hair plastered to his forehead. 

“Need another finger.  More lube.”

Sherlock doesn’t question him.  He simply withdraws very slowly, his skin bursting into gooseflesh at the sound of John’s echoing whine, and then lubes his fingers again and presses back in.  He pauses at the first knuckle, when he feels John’s body tense, and waits. John’s cock is red, and full, and there is a small stream of pre-ejaculate leaking from the tip, and Sherlock thinks it a small miracle, that John’s body could do this, could want so much that he’s…

John’s internal muscles relax and take Sherlock deeper, and Sherlock can imagine it now, what it might feel like to have that other part of him taken in, pulled close, held tight.  And he wants it suddenly, overwhelmingly. He wants to be taken. “John…”

“You—you want it?”

“I want you.”

“Yeah?  Yeah okay, just…  Just give me a minute, okay.”

Sherlock nods, holds his hand as still as possible, lets John set the pace, just as he’d said he wanted to.  He strokes his hand up John’s thigh again, and then lets the back of his knuckles graze against John’s cock, and John tightens around his fingers, draws him deeper still.

“Oh Christ, Sherlock.  Do that again.”

And so Sherlock does, and John thrusts forward seeking out the sensation, and then groans when it causes Sherlock’s fingers to pull halfway out, and pushes back again, and Sherlock realises, in one wild and wonderful moment, that he has John strung perfectly between two battling sensations this way, and it’s beautiful the way it’s making John pant, and keen, and move stuttering and hungry, the hand around Sherlock’s cock losing all coordination, as John is hit again, full force, with a surging flood of desperate desire, walking a microcosm of the tightrope he has balanced precariously on for years, the desire to pull away, in tenuous, torturous balance with the need to press in, press closer.

Sherlock takes John’s cock in hand.  It’s full, and heavy, and twitching against his palm, and John chokes out a sound that is so near a sob Sherlock almost stops, but the look on John’s face is starving, rapturous, and that is enough for Sherlock to keep going.  He holds John in the palm of his hand, and strokes him with his thumb while at the same time, pushing his fingers deeper, and John trembles, and trembles, and gasps out small sobs of pleasure, until Sherlock can’t think, can’t bear it, all there is is John, the sight, the sound, the scent of his pleasure in, and over and around, and Sherlock aches, and aches, and yearns for everything, all of him and for the first time in his life he realises what it is to lust, truly, madly, deeply, an almost overwhelming hunger, a full body need, a desperation to merge.

“John…”

“Want you.”

“I know.”

“No.  Want…”

“Yes.”  Sherlock withdraws slowly, shivers when John groans deep, and low in his throat, and then John is pushing up, thighs already trembling, taking Sherlock in hand, and guiding him where he wants him.  John is slick, and open, and ready, and Sherlock looks up at him in awe as he sinks down. He makes a small sound, and pauses the moment Sherlock’s head presses in, and Sherlock props his elbows against the mattress, and lifts his hands up to give John the support he needs to take as long as he wants.  He feels John settle against his hands a little, the shaking in his weak leg subsides a bit. Sherlock knows it has to be hurting him. The leg is growing stronger every day, but it still…

John puts more and more of his weight against Sherlock’s hands, lowering himself slowly, slowly, but Sherlock doesn’t think he can hold him much longer, and…

John sinks all the way down and hisses, and then stills, and Sherlock’s entire consciousness pulls in with laser focus to that one point, to the place where they are joined, and John is around him, hot, and slick and tight.

Sherlock’s hands are still cupped around John’s arse, and he squeezes hard, without thinking, and then moans when John tightens around him, feels almost like he might pull him deeper still, which is impossible at this point, quite impossible.

“John…”

John’s eyes are glazed, his breathing shallow, his cock hard and leaking.  Sherlock reaches for it. Everything is slick and aching. John tightens around him again, when he gives it a long, languorous pull.  And Sherlock moves then, without thinking, his hips arch upward, driving him deeper, and John shouts, and then moans, and then reaches for the hand Sherlock has around his cock, and removes it, meshes their fingers together instead.  “Can’t have you doing that. Not going to last.”

‘Oh,’ Sherlock mouths, and then screws his eyes shut when John shifts above him, pulling back a little only to push down again.  

“Want you to come.”

“John…”

“Do that again, what you did before.  Do whatever you like.”

And Sherlock knows what he would like.  No. Not like. Need. A burning, yearning, all-consuming need, like desperate thirst, like starvation.  He needs more. He needs to be deeper. He needs all of John, everything he can give, and he needs it now.

“Are you…?”

“‘Course I’m sure.  Just… Whatever you need, Sherlock.”

Sherlock arches his hips up again, and then again.  They are small, shallow thrusts, but John has his full weight bearing down on him, and he’s already buried deep, it’s enough.  It’s enough to stoke the flames of his pleasure afresh, almost to the breaking point.  

John’s eyes are closed, his head tipped back, and his fingers flex and mesh with Sherlock’s, even as his erection twitches, and leaks and bounces against his belly with Sherlock’s movements, and it’s the most overwhelming thing Sherlock has ever experienced, and in the best of ways, and all he wants is just this, just the two of them, joined together, breathing the same breath, hearts beating the same rhythm, his pulse thrumming along side John’s deep inside.  

He needs to come.  He knows this. He’s swiftly reaching the point of overstimulation, but he has a sudden and all-consuming need to feel John’s pleasure, to know what it’s like to be inside him at the moment he lets go, and so he takes all the mental energy his has left, and speaks.  “John…”

“Almost there, yeah?”

“John.”

“I’ve got you, Sherlock.  Whenever you’re ready.”

Sherlock forces his eyes open, slips his hand from John’s and reaches for John’s cock again, hoping he understands, praying he will permit it.  It’s incredibly intimate, Sherlock thinks, coming together, joined like this, and he’s so close, that he knows without a doubt, that when John comes he will be right behind him, but he needs this, he needs it to be together.

Something passes through John’s eyes, a momentary hesitance, but then he exhales, slow and measured, and rides the next thrust of Sherlock’s hips, letting himself push through the tight ring of Sherlock’s fist, and then his hand is closing over Sherlock’s guiding him, showing him precisely the rhythm he needs, and he’s losing himself in it, swiftly, hungrily, like a creature set free at last, he lets himself break wide open, and Sherlock stares up at him, as he starts to ride Sherlock with grunts, and moans, and a delicious string of profanity that sounds like it’s being torn out of the very centre of him, rough, and raw, and aching, and then it is only Sherlock’s name he is saying as his movements speed up, and he impales himself on Sherlock’s throbbing, leaking cock again and again, and Sherlock starts to see stars, to go light headed, and the pleasure builds, and builds until he fears he might miss it, might come first, and topple headlong into the…

John shouts Sherlock’s name, and then keens and keens as he spills over Sherlock’s hand, pulses, and squeezes around his cock, pulling him deeper, drawing the pleasure from Sherlock’s body like a musician drawing a symphony from a violin, and Sherlock is lost.  John’s body draws the pleasure out of him, in long, aching draws, and Sherlock hears someone sobbing and thinks it must be him, because there is nothing but overwhelming pleasure, and then John collapsing on top of him, all tears, and sweat, and come, and Sherlock doesn’t know where John ends and he begins, and it is the most perfect moment of his life.

They lie together a long while—quiet, sated, content.  There isn’t a need for words. Words would be inadequate.  He must drift off, because when he opens his eyes again, the light has changed, their bodies have cooled, and he is sticky in a soiled condom, and John is just stepping back into the room, naked, and rumpled, and holding out a clean flannel and the small metal trash bin from the bathroom.

He climbs back into bed, and hands them to Sherlock wordlessly.  Sherlock sits up, and disposes of the condom, cleans up, and then lays back down.  John is staring at the ceiling, and so Sherlock does the same. After several moments of silence, Sherlock speaks.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

Downstairs the front door opens and then closes again.  Mrs. Hudson, no doubt.

“Was it what you’d imagined it would be?”  Sherlock dares to ask.

John sucks in a breath, and lets it out slow.  He shifts a little, and then settles. “No.”

Sherlock rolls his head against the pillow to look over at him.  He can’t help himself. John meets his eye, and smiles. It’s fond, and a little sad, too, Sherlock thinks.  But that’s just John, no matter the situation.  

“It was…”  John stares back up at the ceiling, and then shakes his head after awhile, when he can’t seem to find the words.  He looks back over at Sherlock. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’d never let myself love anyone before you, you know.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say.  He reaches blindly for John’s hand, and when he finds it, John takes his, without hesitation, meshes their fingers and squeezes.

“I thought it was going to be a bit nerve-racking, and it wasn’t, not really.  Thought it was going to be hot, and it was. Don’t get me wrong, it was, but I didn’t know—I didn’t expect it to make me love you more.”

Sherlock frowns, and John shakes his head, hurrying to clarify.  “No. No. Not just the sex. Not that. If you didn’t like it we don’t ever have to do it again, I mean that.  I just—I just meant—letting go. Letting everything go. I didn’t realise how that would feel.”

“I did like it—for the record.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock nods, and turns to look at John again.  He’s smiling in earnest, now, and Sherlock chuckles.  “Were you really worried?”

“A bit.”

“I’d said I was open to it.”

“I know, but…  Well, sometimes things are different in practice, yeah?”

“Mm.”

“And you didn’t mind the, umm…”

John’s eyes drift downward, and Sherlock grins.  “No. Quite the contrary. You never cease to surprise me.  That’s novel for me.”

John looks pleased with himself, and Sherlock gives his hand a squeeze.

“So you—just liked it, or…?”

Sherlock glances over at him again.  It’s not like John to need so much reassurance after they make love these days.  This did mean something different to him, that’s clear.  

“It was—transcendent.”

John’s brows ascend into his rumpled fringe.  “Yeah, see, I’m not really sure what that means.”

“It means it was more than good,” Sherlock reassures him.  “It means I have never previously had an experience quite like it, and I would very much like to see if I might have another again, sometime very soon.”

John’s face lights up, and he chuckles softly.  “Right.”

Sherlock gives John’s hand a small tug.  “Come here.” And John does. He rolls onto his side and lets Sherlock tuck his head up under his chin, lets him breathe into his hair, and trace a finger the length of his spine.  

“I’m very glad we met, you know.”

He feels John smile against his chest.  “Mm. Feeling's mutual. Was very good of Donna—being murdered like that.”

Sherlock snorts through his nose, and John chuckles.  “Suppose we shouldn’t laugh at that poor woman’s death.  I actually liked Donna.”

Sherlock presses his nose into John’s hair and presses his lips to his scalp.  “You’re horrible. I love you.”

John’s arm tightens around his waist.  “Good. That mean you’ll keep me?”

“If you want to be kept, then yes.”

John pulls away, and when his eyes meet Sherlock’s they are intent and serious.  “I want to be yours.”

“You are,” Sherlock assures him.

“No matter what.”

“Yes.”

“And I meant what I said before.  It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’d be happy to be yours just like this, just to hold you close, just to know you want me, need me, love me, Sherlock.  I don’t need…”

Sherlock kisses him, feels John pull in and then let go, and when he kisses back it’s sweet, and slow.  There is no urgency to it, no desperation. It’s confident. It’s content and sure.

They belong to each other, now—come what may.


End file.
